i 


THE  VANGUARD 


The  Vanguard 


BY 

EDGAR  BEECHER  BRONSON 

Author  of  "Reminiscences  of  a  Ranchman," 
"The  Red-Blooded,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT, IQI4 
BY  GEORGE    H.    DORAN  COMPANY 


DEDICATED 

TO  THE  PATHFINDERS  AND  THE  PACIFIERS 
OF  THE  PLAINS  AND  THE  SIERRAS. 


3599o.; 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    BAPTISED    INTO    BATTLE 9 

II    THE  TALAMA  FIESTA 33 

III  No  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME 57 

IV  DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY 75 

V    MANGUS    COLORADO        94- 

VI    SCOUTING  THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH 112 

VII    THE  DESERTER *3* 

VIII    THE   BORDER   RUFFIANS *47 

IX    THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS l65 

X    AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON l84- 

XI  STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE 200 

XII  Cox  REDIVIVUS 221 

XIII  EXIT  Cox 24X 

XIV  WILD-AND-WOOLLY     WlN 263 

XV    DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE 28* 

XVI    THE  CHINOOK  WIND 3°7 


THE  VANGUARD 


The  Vanguard 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE 

1    BELIEVE  it  was  Victor  Hugo  who  once 
wrote,  "  A  judge  is  more  and  less  than 
a  man;  he  is  more  than  a  man  because 
he  holds  the  scales  of  justice;  he  is  less 
than  a  man  because  he  has  no  heart." 

But  my  memory  harks  back  across  a  half  cen 
tury  to  times  when  judges,  and  prosecuting  at 
torneys  and  peace  officers  as  well,  were  less  than 
men  for  other  reasons  than  a  lack  of  heart;  not 
all,  of  course,  but  far  too  many. 

I  refer  to  times  in  the  formative  epoch  of  our 
early  mining  communities,  from  the  British  line 
to  the  Mexican  border,  when  their  lawless  ele 
ments  made  the  lives  and  property  of  honest,  se 
rious  folk  who  there  ventured  as  insecure  as  both 
had  been  while  exposed  to  the  ambushes  and  raids 
of  hostile  Indians  who  infested  the  overland 
trails;  to  times  when  judges  and  peace  officers 
were  either  the  willing  and  well-paid  tools  or  the 
cowed  and  trembling  servitors  of  the  human  vul- 

9 


io  THE  VANGUARD 

tures  w,ho  there  preyed  and  fattened;  to  times 
when  vigilance  committees  were  more  often  in 
struments  of  private  grudge  and  abettors  of  crime 
than  just  punishers  of  wrong-doers. 

Bitter,  cruel  times  were  those  that  tried  one's 
faith  alike  in  justice  human  and  divine,  times 
when  a  man  with  the  rashness  or  deliberate  hardi 
hood  to  defend  the  weak  often  found  himself 
forced  without  the  pale  of  whatever  crude  coun 
terfeit  of  law  happened  at  the  moment  to  be  pre 
vailing,  his  only  chance  of  escape  of  a  corrupt 
verdict  —  certain  to  cost  him  his  life  or  liberty  — 
lying  in  a  fighting  flight  that  stamped  upon  him 
indelibly  the  stain  of  outlawry. 

Looking  down  now  from  the  serene  height  of 
the  seventy-four  years  I  have  now  attained  and 
back  over  forty-odd  years  of  perpetual  battling, 
I  marvel  most  that  I  should  still  remain  alive  to 
tell  of  them.  Most  of  my  contemporaries,  ac 
tively  engaged  in  the  same  employment  that  has 
been  my  principal  life-work,  have  long  since 
crossed  the  last  divide,  dying  manfully,  like  the 
sturdy  battlers  they  were,  with  their  boots  on. 
The  few  that  remain  I  could  count  on  the  fingers 
of  one  hand. 

While  I  will  not  live  to  see  it,  and  while  it  is 
perhaps  too  much  to  hope,  I  trust  one  day  some 
faithful  hand  will  chronicle  the  honour-roll  of 
that  vanguard  of  unlettered  and  unsung  heroes, 
who  as  stage-coach  messengers,  treasure  guards 
and  marshals,  to  their  end  fearlessly  fought,  often 
single-handed,  the  raiding  hostile  savages,  the  or- 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  n 

ganised  bands  of  road  agents  that  infested  the 
stage  roads,  and  the  disorganised  groups  of  thugs 
and  hold-ups  that  thronged  new  mining  and  front 
railway  camps. 

These  hardy,  rude  but  none  the  less  Homeric 
husbandmen  daily  staked  their  lives,  until  ulti 
mately  they  lost  them,  in  a  death-grip  battle  with 
all  the  various  species  of  noxious  social  weeds  that, 
so  long  as  they  flourished,  remained  a  constant 
threat  to  and  charge  upon  every  form  of  peace 
ful  industry  and  commerce. 

These  men  were  the  real  pacifiers  of  the  early 
trails  and  towns,  a  class  without  which,  had  men 
of  like  kidney  been  lacking,  the  pacification  and 
settlement  of  the  plains  and  sierras  would  have 
been  retarded  another  half  century. 

To  be  sure  the  memories  of  many  are  gone  past 
finding  as  completely  as  their  wolf-picked  bones 
have  disintegrated  and  become  absorbed  into  the 
plant  life  risen  above  the  buffalo  wallows  in  which 
they  died;  are  lost  as  hopelessly  as  every  trace  of 
many  a  "  Boot  Hill  "  that  held  their  unmarked 
graves  has  been  buried  for  all  time  beneath  masses 
of  brick  and  mortar;  but  the  life  stories  of  enough 
of  these  men  are  still  obtainable  to  enable  just 
measure  of  their  services  and  worth. 

Mine  has,  unfortunately,  been  a  red  record 
from  early  youth  right  up  to  the  very  end  of  my 
active  career.  Some  of  its  leading  incidents  I 
now  propose  to  chronicle,  incidents  that  will  serve 
to  point  to  the  youth  of  to-day  the  hardships  and 
dangers  an  earlier  generation  had  to  cope  with, 


12  THE  VANGUARD 

in  battling,  first,  to  save  our  Federal  Union,  and, 
later,  to  win  from  savagery  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  square  miles  of  territory  now  teeming  with 
peaceful  industry  and  trade. 

And  while  for  the  larger  part  of  forty  years 
I  have  been  reckoned  as  an  outlaw  in  one  part  of 
the  country  or  another;  and  while  enough  men 
have  met  death  at  my  hands  —  many  more,  in 
deed,  than  I  shall  here  take  space  to  mention  — 
to  start  a  fair  sized  graveyard,  my  story  I  shall 
tell  alike  without  shame  and  without  pride  or 
spirit  of  boast. 

I  shall  tell  it  without  shame,  for  I  never  killed 
any  but  savages  and  desperate  criminals  engaged 
at  the  time  of  their  taking  off  either  in  trying  to 
kill  me  or  to  capture  property  I  was  employed  in 
guarding  —  I  got  there  first,  that  was  all;  with 
out  pride  or  boast,  because  no  really  brave  man 
harbours  such  sentiments. 

And  whatever  is  a  "  really  brave  man,"  I  won 
der?  Certainly  there  must  be  degrees  of  brav 
ery,  if  some,  as  we  are  told,  are  utterly  devoid 
of  fear.  For  while  I  hope  and  believe  I  never 
funked  going  against  any  odds  where  my  bounden 
duty  required,  I  know  I  always  dodged  trouble 
as  long  as  I  could  with  decency  and  safety,  and 
never  myself  became  really  dangerous  to  another 
until  I  myself  had  become  badly  scared. 

All  so  called  danger,  anyway,  is  only  relative; 
is  actually  appalling  only  to  the  inexperienced; 
invariably  diminishes  where  circumstances  over 
which  we  have  no  control  make  us  its  familiar, 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  13 

until,  while  ever  sensible  of  the  hazards  it  hangs 
over  us,  and  always  sub-consciously  on  guard  for 
them,  we  eat  and  sleep  with,  it  as  consciously  un 
concerned  about  our  own  physical  safety  as  is  a 
village  sexton  spading  God's  Acre. 

A  crisis  come,  then  I  believe  even  the  hardiest 
suffers  a  momentary  access  of  fear  that  sends  the 
blood  surging  back  upon  the  heart,  a  mental  shock 
due  to  the  surprise.  But  this  is  instantly  fol 
lowed  by  a  hyper-natural  alertness  of  every  sense 
in  personal  defence  against  the  threat  impend 
ing. 

Thus  the  steeple-jack  swings  singing  at  dizzy 
heights;  the  miner  jests  while  he  tamps  his  blast 
ing  charge  and  lays  his  fuse;  the  trained  gun- 
fighter  chaffs  and  apparently  lounges  beside  an 
enemy  he  knows  is  eagerly  watching  for  a  chance 
to  pot  him. 

And,  if  you  ask  me,  none  of  these  men  are  run 
ning  materially  more  serious  risk  of  their  lives 
than  do  the  denizens  of  cities,  dodging  darting 
throngs  of  automobiles  with  all  the  cleverness  and 
coolness  of  a  banderillero  in  a  bull  ring;  are  in 
no  more  peril  than  the  workers  among  the  madly 
whirling  wheels  of  many  a  factory.  So,  at  least, 
it  seems  to  me. 

I  come  of  a  race  of  pioneers.  Indeed,  I  my 
self  was  born  in  a  sugar  bush  of  Ionia  County, 
near  the  centre  of  the  State  of  Michigan,  under 
conditions  of  life  so  bitterly  hard  that  the  worst 
that  has  befallen  me  away  from  the  home  of  my 
boyhood  has  seemed,  by  comparison,  easy. 


I4  THE  VANGUARD 

There  in  the  early  forties  it  was  a  perpetual 
struggle  from  year  end  to  year  end,  with  no  re 
ward  at  the  finish  other  than  the  keeping  ourselves 
scantily  clad  and  seldom  better  than  half  fed. 
None  escaped  the  struggle.  Toddling  youth  and 
halting,  palsied  age  had  to  work  to  live,  knew  no 
ease  or  even  real  rest. 

Of  money  there  was  practically  none  there  in 
circulation,  and  of  this  condition  I  recall  a  strik 
ing  instance.  Mr.  A.  S.  Wadsworth  was  the 
grandee  of  our  community,  its  leading  merchant 
and  the  owner  of  the  only  water  power  sawmill 
in  that  section. 

Always  a  large  creditor  of  the  neighbours  for 
lumber  and  supplies,  the  only  payments  any  were 
able  to  make  to  him  were  in  produce.  Thus 
when,  one  day,  the  postmaster,  Mr.  Hooker,  re 
ceived  a  letter  for  Mr.  Wadsworth  upon  which 
twenty-five  cents  was  due,  a  canvass  of  every 
cabin  in  the  county  failed  of  finding  a  single  coin. 

For  Mr.  Wadsworth  it  was  a  serious  dilemma. 
He  knew  the  letter  was  to  him  an  important  busi 
ness  communication.  He  must  have  it.  But  how 
get  it?  For  some  days  he  puzzled  and  worried 
over  the  problem,  until  at  last  came  along  a  rude 
financier,  Jake  Bowman  by  name,  with  a  solution. 
He  offered  to  take  his  pack  of  hounds  and  go  with 
Wadsworth  on  a  coon  hunt! 

Through  the  cornfields  and  woods  the  pair 
prowled  for  three  days  with  the  dogs,  without 
success.  But  on  the  fourth  day  they  scored  — 
with  five  fine  coon  pelts ! 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  15 

Wadsworth  "  pegged  out  "  the  hides  for  a  few 
days  until  they  were  properly  dried,  then  he 
walked  ninety  miles  through  the  wilderness  to  De 
troit,  which  was  a  small  French  trading  post  in 
those  days,  where  he  found  a  market  for  his  five 
pelts. 

They  brought  him  sixty-seven  cents,  and  their 
conversion  into  coin  had  cost  him  a  round  trip  of 
one  hundred  and  eighty  miles.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  able  to  return  with  the  funds  needed  to  get  his 
letter. 

Of  boyhood  I  had  none,  of  the  careless,  rollicky, 
happy  sort  that  goes  to  make  up  the  dearest  treas 
ured  memories  of  most  men;  no  schools,  no  play, 
little  of  even  the  rudest  comforts,  often  actually 
ahunger.  Dreary,  wretched  days  were  those, 
and  horrid  were  the  nights ;  no  light  but  the  flicker 
of  the  fireplace,  and  that  dulled,  almost  obscured, 
by  the  cloud  of  anxiety  and  care  that  ever 
shrouded  our  little  cabin  in  oppressive  gloom  and 
dulled  faces  into  impassive,  brooding  masks. 

Eight  years  I  there  worked  as  boy  and  youth, 
four  years  at  twenty-five  cents  per  day,  four  at 
fifty  cents  per  day  —  eight  years  virtually  for 
nothing  —  slaving  in  the  logging  camps,  doing  a 
man's  work  by  day  and  all  the  camp  chores  by 
night.  Still  it  was  a  life  that  turned  out  steel- 
thewed  stalwarts,  and  it  was  for  that,  and  that 
alone,  I  feel  indebted  to  Michigan. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  I  should  not  make  my  in 
dictment  of  the  State  in  general  and  of  old  Ionia 
County  in  particular  so  sweeping,  for  there  to  be 


1 6  THE  VANGUARD 

sure,  living  only  two  miles  above  us  in  the  sugar 
bush,  was  Bessie  McVicker,  the  only  ever-happy, 
merry-faced,  mischievous  lass  in  all  that  forest 
side.  Blue  eyed  was  she,  ruddy  as  a  cranberry, 
lithe  as  a  panther,  with  such  thick  masses  of  blond 
hair  cloaking  her  shoulders  she  never  on  the  cold 
est  day  seemed  to  mind  the  thinness  of  her  rent 
and  threadbare  frocks. 

She  was  about  my  own  age.  From  my  first 
glimpse  of  her,  it  was  a  joy  to  me  to  see  her  face; 
her  smiling  mouth  and  devilment-lighted  eyes 
shone  among  the  grim,  brooding,  gloomy  faces 
of  the  neighbourhood  like  a  burst  of  sun  rays 
through  a  darkly  ominous  pall  of  cloud. 

Seldom  it  was  we  met  —  lacking  schools  and 
churches,  lacking  indeed  leisure  for  social  gath 
erings  of  any  sort  of  either  the  old  or  the  young. 
Occasionally  I  met  her  on  her  way  to  the  Saranac 
store  or  on  some  forest  path,  always  to  my  dis 
comfiture,  notwithstanding  the  happiness  it  gave 
me  to  see  her.  For  it  was  never  a  kind  word 
she  gave  me;  always,  instead,  a  raw  jest  or  jeer  at 
my  dress  or  awkwardness. 

Indifferently  as  she  treated  me,  almost  cruelly, 
in  fact,  I  suspect  I  was  near  to  madly  loving  Bes 
sie  McVicker  until  one  day  I  surprised  her  hang 
ing  for  half  an  hour  intent,  eager  eyed,  herself 
silent,  on  the  yarns  of  young  Tom  Harper,  a  hand 
some  but  evil-natured  and  drunken  young  lum 
berman  who  was  telling  her  of  the  wonders  of 
the  growing  settlements  and  of  his  adventures  on 
his  last  log  drive. 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  17 

The  half  hour  I  watched  them,  through  the 
sheltering  leaves  I  hid  behind,  filled  me  with  such 
jealousy  and  bitterness  as  to  leave  me  ill  prepared 
for  her  disdain  of  me  at  our  next  meeting,  when 
she  bounded  out  of  the  bush  into  a  camp  where 
I  was  at  work  "  sugaring  off,"  boiling  maple  sap 
into  sugar. 

Near  beside  the  fire  and  kettles  we  had  a  great 
trough  filled  to  the  brim  with  sap,  and  down  upon 
the  edge  of  this  trough  sat  Miss  Bessie,  leaned 
across  it,  bracing  herself  with  one  hand  resting 
upon  its  farther  side. 

She  screamed  with  laughter  when  an  unlucky 
slip  in  the  slush  sent  me  sprawling  and  plunged 
my  finger  tips  momentarily  among  the  live  coals 
of  the  fire. 

This  was  bad  enough;  but  when,  only  a  mo 
ment  later,  by  some  evil  chance,  Tom  Harper 
happened  into  the  camp  just  as  Bessie  had  re 
sumed  jeering  me,  and  began  showering  me  with 
icy  sap,  tossed  out  of  one  of  our  wooden  ladles, 
"  to  save  the  lubber  from  burning  up  of  his  next 
tumble  into  the  fire,"  as  she  laughed  to  Tom,  it 
was  too  much  for  me. 

Suddenly  swept  by  a  great  wave  of  resentment, 
I  jolted  free  of  its  grip  on  the  trough  the  hand 
that  balanced  Bessie  above  the  icy  sap,  when 
plump  into  it  she  fell,  soused  thoroughly  from 
head  to  foot. 

And  scarcely  out  of  it  had  she  started  to  scram 
ble  before  Tom,  of  a  third  greater  weight  than 
mine,  had  caught  me  a  smash  in  the  ear  that  drove 


1 8  THE  VANGUARD 

me  flying  clean  across  the  top  of  the  trough,  where 
for  an  instant  I  lay  half  stunned.  But  by  the  time 
he  got  to  me,  great  fist  swinging  for  another  blow, 
I  was  on  my  feet  with  a  stick  of  fire  wood  in  my 
hand. 

Luckily  for  me,  my  stick  landed  a  fraction  of 
a  second  ahead  of  Tom's  fist,  landed  high  up 
across  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  and  of  the  blow 
Tom  dropped  limply  into  the  snow,  just  like  I 
have  seen  many  a  man  sink  in  a  shuddering  hud 
dle  of  a  brain  shot. 

And,  God !  the  tide  of  remorse  that  then  swept 
me !  For  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  taken  a  human 
life.  Bessie,  shivering  of  her  drench  in  the  sap, 
dropped  beside  Tom,  taking  his  head  in  her  lap, 
and  began  wiping  his  bloody  face  with  her  sop 
ping  sleeve.  Then,  like  a  flash,  all  remorse  van 
ished. 

Meantime  Tom  lay  still,  scarcely  breathing,  so 
still  I  got  scared  and  slipped  out  of  the  little 
clearing  into  the  big  forest,  through  which  I  hur 
dled  at  my  top  speed  until  I  reached  home. 

Breathlessly  I  told  my  old  dad  the  story  — 
and  then  received  at  his  hands  a  harder  pummel 
ling  than  I  have  ever  received  since,  for  my  rash 
ness. 

Slight  as  at  best  were  the  ties  that  held  me  to 
home,  it  really  needed  less  than  this  incident  to 
break  them. 

Thus,  haunted  with  fear  that  Tom  might  not 
recover,  and  smarting  of  what  I  then  regarded, 
and  still  regard,  as  an  unjust  punishment,  as  soon 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  19 

as  my  dad  strolled  out  into  the  cow  lot,  I  hastily 
slipped  into  my  best  clothes,  tucked  safely  away 
the  one  ten-dollar  bill  that  represented  the  gross 
accumulations  of  eight  years  of  hard  labour,  and 
stole  out  into  the  forest,  headed  west. 

A  fugitive?  Yes;  no  less  than  that  was  I. 
But,  mind  you  well,  I  knew  Tom  —  knew  that 
with  his  greater  weight  and  strength  and  brutal 
habit,  he  was  certain  to  kill  or  cripple  me.  Oth 
erwise  I  should  not  have  resorted  to  a  weapon, 
the  first  I  then  had  ever  used. 

Nor  pleasant  part  did  I  find  that  of  fugitive, 
then,  although  later  it  became  natural  to  me  as  the 
most  every-day  routine  of  life. 

But  never  till  the  last  taps  are  beaten  for  Cor 
poral  Stocking  will  he  forget  the  horrors  of  that 
long,  weary  tramp  —  south  around  the  lower  end 
of  Lake  Michigan,  north  to  and  through  Chicago; 
west,  ever  west,  across  the  States  of  Illinois  and 
Missouri  to  far  away  St.  Joe;  the  haunting  dread 
of  pursuit  that  made  him  shift  to  cover  at  every 
sound  of  beating  hoofs;  the  ghastly  spectre  of 
that  still,  bleeding  face  ever  peering  into  his  from 
ambush  within  some  swaying  shadow  of  his  camp- 
fire;  and  then  the  hateful  thought,  worst  torture 
of  all,  that  the  brute  might  live  to  win  and  wed 
Miss  Bessie! 

Indeed,  never  until  the  Missouri's  yellow  flood 
rolled  between  me  and  what  I  had  left  lying  beside 
the  sap-trough  did  I  begin  to  know  any  peace  of 
mind. 

It  was  many  a  year  before  I  heard  aught  of  the 


20  THE  VANGUARD 

consequences  of  my  baptism  into  battle  in  the 
sugar  bush.  And  soon  things  so  new,  strange  and 
stirring  were  happening  to  me  or  about  me,  that 
gradually,  slowly,  just  like  a  few  months  later  I 
saw  Laramie  Peak  fade  to  its  nightly  rest  among 
the  shadows  that  chased  away  the  after-glow,  so 
faded  from  my  memory  the  incidents  of  my  Mich 
igan  forest  life  —  all  save  that  of  the  roguish 
face  of  Bessie  McVicker. 

St.  Joe  was  then  the  principal  port  of  departure 
from  the  Missouri  River  of  the  overland  Califor 
nia  traffic,  a  teeming,  hustling,  hard-cursing  and 
harder  drinking  little  city,  straggling  along  the 
river  bluffs. 

A  city  that  seemed  never  to  sleep,  its  muddy 
streets  thronged  thickly  of  nights  as  by  day  with 
bronzed  and  buckskinned  trappers  and  traders 
from  the  farther  tributaries  of  the  great  river 
above  Fort  Benton;  red  sashed  and  silver-be 
spangled  Mexicans  from  Santa  Fe  and  Chihua 
hua;  grimy,  savage  bull-whackers  and  mule  skin 
ners  out  of  the  overland  freight  teams;  dandy 
gamblers  redolent  of  scents  but  ever  keen  for  dol 
lars,  habited  in  sombre  black,  coats  preferably 
frock  of  cut,  and  beringed  and  bediamonded,  and 
bedamned  by  all  who  stacked  up  stakes  against 
their  play;  gaily  dressed  stage  drivers,  proud  of 
their  calling  as  the  captain  of  a  battle-ship  of  his 
first  command,  who,  from  lofty  perch  on  box 
seats,  looked  down  upon  passengers  in  general  and 
the  world  at  large  with  all  the  haughty  contempt 
of  a  high  roller  for  a  piker  —  a  polyglot  lot  from 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  21 

whom  one  heard  almost  as  much  Spanish  and 
French  as  English. 

Up  and  down  the  Missouri's  muddy  flood  fussy 
little  stern-wheelers  were  ever  churning;  pelts  of 
beasts  their  down-current  cargo,  barrels,  bales  and 
boxes  of  food-stuffs  and  merchandise  the  loads 
up-stream. 

From  dawn  to  dark  stores  and  warehouses  were 
hedged  thick  about  with  close-crowding  mule  and 
bull  teams,  loading  or  waiting  their  turn,  prepar 
ing  for  the  plod  away  out  to  the  Mormon  settle- 
ments,  or  to  one  or  another  of  the  isolated  mining 
camps. 

On  the  streets,  at  the  bars  about  the  gambling 
tables,  all  the  talk  heard  was  of  one  generic  topic 
—  adventure,  somewhere,  of  some  sort,  shooting 
scrapes  over  disputed  mining  claims,  scraps  with 
Indians,  hold-ups  of  stages,  pursuits  of  outlaws, 
tussles  with  grizzlies,  battles  with  broncos,  skirm 
ishes  with  Mexicans  —  naturally  enough,  for  the 
men  there  assembled  were  leading  lives  that  de 
veloped  no  other  types  of  incident  to  talk  about. 

In  truth  it  was  a  period  of  the  daring  and  the 
enduring.  One  incident  I  there  heard  told,  a 
happening  of  a  few  years  earlier,  in  1851,  par 
ticularly  impressed  me.  It  was  that  of  the  fa 
mous  ride  of  G.  H.  Aubrey,  the  Santa  Fe  trader, 
from  the  plaza  of  Santa  Fe  to  Independence,  Mis 
souri,  undertaken  on  a  wager  of  one  thousand  dol 
lars  that  he  could  cover  the  distance,  roughly  eight 
hundred  miles,  within  six  days. 

Aubrey  was  then  a  short,  sturdily  built  man  of 


22  THE  VANGUARD 

thirty-eight,  absolutely  in,  his  prime.  Already  for 
ten  years  a  trader  over  the  Santa  Fe  trail,  he 
knew  every  foot  of  it.  Ahead  of  him  he  sent 
either  six  or  eight  horses,  I  cannot  remember 
which,  to  be  stationed  at  convenient  points,  as  re 
lays. 

Out  of  Santa  Fe  he  one  morning  trotted  easily 
until  his  mount  was  well  warmed  to  its  work,  and 
then  let  him  out  into  a  long,  free  lope  he  never 
broke,  except  for  brief  breathing  spells,  until  the 
next  station  was  reached. 

And  these  tactics  the  man  had  the  marvellous 
nerve  and  strength  to  continue  until  he  finally  fell 
fainting  from  his  staggering  horse  in  the  public 
square  of  Independence  —  out  five  days  and  nine 
teen  hours  from  Santa  Fe. 

Forty-eight  hours  elapsed  before  Aubrey  re 
covered  consciousness.  For  most  men,  it  would 
have  remained  their  long  sleep. 

This  feat  was  then  unanimously  regarded  by 
plainsmen  as  the  most  remarkable  exhibition  of 
strength  and  endurance  on  record,  and,  person 
ally,  I  have  never  since  heard  of  any  that  equals 
it.  This  story  I  heard  told  by  one  of  the  two 
men  who  caught  Aubrey  as  he  fell  from  his  horse 
at  the  finish. 

It  was  very  hungry  and  nearly  naked  I  was 
when  I  reached  St.  Joe.  But  already  I  had  dis 
covered  that  hearts  were  getting  bigger  and  hands 
more  generous  the  farther  west  I  travelled. 

Thus  I  was  not  so  very  greatly  surprised  when, 
the  very  first  day,  a  rough  bull-whacker  whom  I 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  23 

saw  passing  stopped  me  and  said,  "  Kid,  'pears  to 
me  you're  lookin'  terrible  holler;  come  along  to 
camp."  Such  an  invitation  from  a  Michigander 
of  my  day  would  have  given  me  a  fatal  attack  of 
heart  disease. 

However,  there  I  was  not  slow  to  accept;  and 
for  three  days,  until  I  finally  got  a  job  with  an 
other  outfit,  this  kindly  man  shared  his  grub  and 
blankets  with  me;  said  I  "  sorta  'minded  him  of 
a  kid  brother  he  used  to  have." 

My  first  job  on  the  plains  was  not  a  brilliant 
one,  but  at  it  I  was  happy  as  a  lark.  I  was  hired 
as  a  cook  for  the  wagon  master's  mess  of  an  over 
land  freight  outfit  bound  for  Salt  Lake.  It  was 
owned  by  a  firm  of  Gentile  merchants  of  that  city, 
but  its  wagon  masters  and  their  assistants  were 
Mormons. 

My  compensation  was  nothing  to  go  crazy  over, 
but  at  the  time  it  sounded  good  to  me.  I  was  to 
get  no  salary  at  all,  in  fact,  but  was  promised  by 
the  wagon  master  that,  upon  our  arrival  in  Salt 
Lake,  I  should  be  provided  with  a  new  suit  of 
clothes,  a  horse,  saddle  and  arms  that  would  fit 
me  to  join  some  California-bound  emigrant  out 
fit. 

Of  course  I  was  no  ring-tailed,  pea-warmer  of 
a  fancy  cook,  and  the  mess  was  not  long  finding 
it  out;  but  somehow  I  managed  to  get  along. 
Goodness  knows,  the  fare  was  simple  enough,  and 
so,  consequently,  the  demands  on  my  skill ;  making 
coffee,  frying  meat,  boiling  beans  and  baking 
bread  —  that  was  all. 


24  THE  VANGUARD 

Bread  making,  however,  was  not  long  getting 
me  into  trouble,  for  what  with  my  other  duties 
and  the  gusty  winds  it  was  always  hard  to  bake  it 
"  done  "  and  yet  not  burn  it. 

The  mule  skinners  of  our  outfit  were  a  pretty 
tough  lot,  especially  when  in  drink;  and  usually 
at  the  stage  stations,  twelve  to  twenty  miles  apart, 
the  more  particularly  notable  brands  of  "  fighting 
whisky  "  were  to  be  had. 

The  bully  of  our  bunch  was  a  fellow  named 
Edwards.  In  the  first  week  out  before  we  struck 
the  Platte  River,  he  had  most  of  our  party  ter 
rorised.  Repeatedly  the  wagon  boss  had  called 
him  down,  but  always  mildly,  for  he  himself,  I 
believe,  was  afraid  of  him. 

Finally  one  morning,  while  harnessing  the 
teams  for  a  start,  Edwards  took  offence  at  an 
other  u  skinner,"  and  beat  him  most  cruelly  over 
the  head  with  a  six-shooter.  Standing  over  his 
unconscious  victim,  he  dared  any  one  to  interfere; 
but  not  even  the  boss  ventured  to  take  him  to  task. 
The  beaten  man  we  left  at  the  next  government 
hospital,  and  whether  he  ever  recovered  we  never 
heard. 

That  very  same  night  Edwards  told  me  that  if 
I  burned  my  bread  again  he  would  kill  me.  My 
self  unarmed  and,  besides,  yet  wholly  unfamiliar 
with  gun  fighting,  I  took  my  trouble  to  my  boss, 
but  only  to  be  told  that  it  was  up  to  me  to  look 
after  myself. 

Next  morning  the  storm  broke.  Breakfast  not 
ready  early  enough  to  suit  him,  Edwards  drew  his 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE          25 

pistol  on  me  and  started  to  curse  me  for  not  hur 
rying.  But  before  he  had  three  words  out  I 
slipped  from  my  belt  an  oak  tent-pin  I  had  planned 
to  use  on  him,  and  at  the  first  crack  broke  the 
wrist  of  his  pistol  hand. 

Then  in  an  instant  we  had  it  over  and  under  — 
a  desperate  fight  I  should  have  never  won  through 
with  had  not  the  boys  collared  his  pistol  and  the 
difference  in  our  weight  and  strength  been  evened 
up  by  the  crippling  of  his  hand. 

And  at  that  the  affair  was  a  tougher  tussle  than 
I  ever  had,  for  he  bit  and  clawed  and  kicked  like 
the  wild  beast  he  was.  Finally  I  got  a  twist  of 
his  good  arm  that  nearly  broke  it,  and  put  him  at 
my  mercy,  which  did  not  get  especially  active  in 
his  behalf  until  I  had  him  beaten  worse  than  I 
like  to  describe  and  was  myself  more  of  a  wreck 
than  I  like  to  think  about. 

But  the  affair  proved  well  worth  while,  for 
thereafter  Edwards  was  tame  as  a  house  cat,  and 
none  of  the  rest  of  the  outfit  tried  to  impose  on 
me. 

On  we  plodded  week  after  week  up  the  valley 
of  the  Platte,  past  Julesberg  at  the  junction  of  the 
North  and  South  Forks;  on  up  the  North  Fork 
past  Scotts  Bluffs  and  Chimney  Rock;  on  through 
Ft.  Laramie,  up  the  Sweetwater  and  over  Whisky 
Gap,  not  reaching  Echo  Canon  until  near  the 
end  of  the  fourth  month  out  from  St.  Joe, 
for  our  mules  were  in  bad  condition  when  we 
started. 

People  who  have  not  enjoyed  an  intimate  ac- 


26  THE  VANGUARD 

quaintance  with  mules  fancy  them  dull  and  stupid. 
Nothing  of  the  sort.  I'll  back  an  old  mule  against 
a  possum  any  day  for  cunning,  where  there  is  a 
chance  of  dodging  work  or  of  evening  a  score. 
And  it  was  right  there  in  Echo  Canon  I  saw  a 
funny  instance  of  this. 

There  we  were  met  by  a  number  of  clerks  sent 
by  our  owners  to  enter  Salt  Lake  with  us  and  see 
that  no  goods  were  made  away  with  by  men  or 
bosses,  dandified,  cane-swinging  little  chaps  whose 
presence  we  resented. 

As  we  were  descending  the  canon  of  a  hot  day, 
one  of  the  mules  gave  out,  and  fell,  apparently 
hopelessly  exhausted,  in  its  harness.  Curses, 
whips  and  clubs  had  no  stimulating  effect  on  him. 
Apparently  the  beast  was  about  to  die.  So  he 
was  unharnessed,  pulled  out  of  the  swing,  and  an 
other  mule  lassoed  to  take  his  place. 

But  when,  just  as  we  were  about  to  drive  on, 
leaving  the  mule  dying,  as  we  thought,  one  of  the 
clerks  gave  him  a  hard  kick  and  struck  him  with 
a  cane.  Lo,  a  resurrection!  the  moribund  mule 
struck  out  with  both  feet  and  caught  the  clerk  a 
frightful  kick  in  the  stomach  that  first  doubled 
him  up  and  then  left  him  writhing  like  a  snake 
with  its  head  shot  off. 

And  then  what  do  you  think  that  gory  old  won 
der  of  a  dead  one  did?  Why,  he  just  bounded 
to  his  feet  like  a  two-year-old,  and  with  alternate 
snorts  and  whinneys,  head  turned  and  looking 
back  at  us,  went  buck-jumping  towards  our  re- 
mouda  —  literally  laughing  at  us,  if  any  creature, 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE  27 

human  or  brute,  ever  in  this  world  laughed  be 
fore! 

Arriving  at  last  at  Salt  Lake,  all  of  the  outfit 
were  paid  off  —  all  except  me.  Probably  because 
his  commitment  to  furnish  me  an  outfit  touched 
the  pockets  of  himself  and  his  assistants,  the 
wagon  boss  refused  to  make  good,  vowing  he  had 
only  offered  me  free  passage  as  the  reward  of  my 
work.  Indeed  all  I  got  out  of  him,  by  his  own 
consent,  was  permission  to  live  at  his  house  until 
I  could  find  work. 

And  right  there  in  Salt  Lake  I  might  have  been 
stranded  indefinitely  but  for  the  kindness  of  his 
wife,  who  resented  my  ill  treatment  at  Green's 
hands,  and  whose  good  heart  led  her  to  supply 
me  liberally  with  provisions  and  clothes,  to  give 
me  a  good  saddle  and  mule  out  of  their  own  sta 
bles,  to  arm  me  with  a  fine  cap-and-ball  pistol, 
after  which  she  told  me  it  would  be  my  own  fault 
if  I  did  not  win  through  to  California. 

Dear  Mrs.  Green;  she  was  one  of  the  first  it 
was  my  privilege  to  know  owning  a  heart  and 
hand  ever  ready  to  help  the  needy  and  the 
wronged. 

Poor  woman!  Not  long  afterward  I  heard 
that  her  place  as  favourite  wife  in  her  Mormon 
husband's  household  was  supplanted  by  a  younger 
and  more  beautiful  woman,  who  lolled  in  the  com 
parative  luxuries  her  predecessor  had  laboured 
for  years  helping  to  accumulate. 

So  one  dark  night  I  was  thus  enabled  to  slip 
out  of  Salt  Lake,  well  mounted  and  equipped,  and 


28  THE  VANGUARD 

but  for  my  lack  of  experience  in  the  saddle  should 
have  had  easy  enough  going. 

But,  totally  ignorant  of  how  to  cover  distance 
and  still  save  my  mule's  energies,  for  a  hundred 
miles  I  believe  I  broke  all  records,  then  dragged 
wearily  through  the  second  day  —  and  camped 
that  night  beside  my  poor  mule's  dead  body ! 

For  most  men  this  situation,  afoot  in  the  Ne 
vada  desert,  would  have  been  a  crusher;  but  for 
me  all  life  had  come  so  hard  that  I  found  no  diffi 
culty  in  contenting  myself  with  the  riches  that 
still  remained  to  me  —  my  pistol,  saddle,  and  a 
fairly  generous  stock  of  grub. 

So  it  was  that  the  next  sunrise  found  me  merrily 
hitting  the  trail,  packing  my  saddle  on  my  shoul 
der,  happy  as  a  king.  Nor  was  it  later  than  even 
ing  of  the  same  day  before  I  bumped  into  a  piece 
of  real  good  luck;  I  overtook  a  party  of  emigrants 
who  had  been  laid  up  hunting  strayed  stock,  and 
who  were  kind  enough  to  let  me  throw  in  with 
them. 

And  on  I  travelled  with  them  along  the  Hum- 
boldt  River,  and  then  up  the  Truckee  to  the  Big 
Meadows,  where  I  stopped  and  worked  in  the  hay 
meadows  until  I  had  earned  the  price  of  a  cayuse 
pony. 

Fairly  remounted  again,  I  resumed  my  journey 
toward  the  Pacific,  into  California,  striking 
north  of  west  by  Honey  Lake  to  Red  Bluffs, 
then  the  head  of  navigation  on  the  Sacramento 
River. 

Red  Bluffs  was  then  a  booming,  sizzling,  crude 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE          29 

understudy  for  St.  Joe,  packed  with  drifting 
miners  and  adventurers  of  all  sorts,  money  plenty, 
play  high  or  low  as  one  wanted  it.  Since  then  I 
have  seen  many  a  hot  practical  joke,  but  never 
to  beat  one  I  there  saw  played. 

The  largest  saloon  and  gambling  house  in  town 
was  run  by  old  "  Pussy  "  Britt.  It  was  one  of 
the  wonders  of  the  river,  talked  of  even  down  to 
Frisco.  It  sported  more  looking-glasses  than  I 
had  supposed  the  whole  world  held,  four  billiard- 
tables  and  two  pool-tables,  a  dozen  "  lay-outs,"  a 
mixed  job  lot  of  faro,  monte,  stud  poker,  roulette, 
chuck-a-luck,  et  cetera;  and  five  side  rooms  for 
poker  parties. 

Of  course  the  bar  was  at  the  front,  strategic 
ally  placed  to  tempt  all  who  entered  and  mould 
them  to  mellow  mood  and  reckless  staking  at  the 
tables  back  of  it.  Day  and  night  old  Pussy's 
place  was  packed  with  a  mixed  bunch  of  high- 
rollers  and  pikers. 

A  pathetic  butt  of  this  gang  of  rounders  was  a 
rather  feeble  old  man  who  built  the  fires  and  did 
the  chores  about  the  place  for  his  food,  sleeping 
behind  the  bar  or  wherever  else  on  the  floor  he 
could  find  room  to  lay  his  tired  old  bones. 

"  The  Butler  "  was  his  nickname.  Seedy  of 
dress,  never  clean,  and  always  at  least  half  soused, 
the  old  fellow  was  no  rum  fiend  by  his  own  choice, 
for  he  avoided  drink  as  much  as  he  could.  But 
the  mad  rioters  about  the  bar  were  always  forcing 
drinks  upon  him. 

One  cold  day  The  Butler  sat  dozing  by  the 


30  THE  VANGUARD 

stove,  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  — 
upon  which  rested  a  new  hat  some  one  had  given 
him  —  lopped  down  until  it  nearly  touched  the 
stove,  when  one  of  the  "  funny "  sports  came 
along  with  a  big  pat  of  butter.  Lifting  The  But 
ler's  hat,  he  stuffed  into  its  crown  the  pound  or 
more  of  butter,  and  then  crowded  the  hat  down 
tight  over  its  owner's  brows. 

Quickly  melting,  yellow  streams  were  soon  trick 
ling  down  his  face  and  beard,  to  the  great  joy 
of  all  the  assembled  rounders,  who  shrieked  and 
howled  with  laughter  until,  finally,  the  victim 
roused  and  reeled  out  of  the  room. 

But  that  there  was  one  man  in  the  place  with 
a  heart  in  him  to  sympathise  with  the  old  fellow, 
the  crowd  was  not  long  learning,  to  its  discomfi 
ture. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day,  two- 
thirds  sobered,  equipped  by  his  newly  found  friend 
with  the  materials  and  posted  as  to  method,  The 
Butler,  bare-headed  and  very  pale  (his  face  whit 
ened  with  chalk  I  later  suspected),  entered  the 
saloon  and  approached  the  stove.  A  crowd  was 
gathered  around  it,  while  the  bar  bristled  with 
boozers  and  players  and  on-lookers  hedged  every 
table  thick  about. 

Gunpowder  then  came  in  two-pound  cans,  or 
flasks,  and  in  his  hand  The  Butler  carried  such  a 
flask. 

White  as  a  dead  man,  holding  the  flask  half 
hid  in  his  hand,  he  began  to  speak  as  soon  as  he 
reached  the  stove,  in  the  strong  steady  voice  of 


BAPTISED  INTO  BATTLE          31 

a  man  possessed  of  a  purpose  nothing  could  swerve 
him  from. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  time  was  in  the  past 
when  I  could  have  bought  and  sold  every  last  man 
of  you  here  present.  I  was  myself  once  prosper 
ous  and  happy  as  you  are  now.  But  times  change ; 
I'm  down  —  have  been  so  longer  than  I  dare  try 
to  recall. 

"  When  I  was  on  top,  I  never  tried  to  put 
it  over  the  unfortunate;  when  I  could,  gentle 
men,  I  tried  to  help  them.  But  you  sports,  it 
seems,  are  of  a  different  breed,  for  not  content 
with  trying  to  debauch  me  into  a  drunken  sot, 
you  are  always  hunting  chances  to  mortify  and 
hurt  me. 

"  I'm  tired,  gentlemen  —  tired  past  standing 
it  any  longer.  Right  here  is  where  I  am  going 
to  cash  in,  and  since  I'd  like  to  see  what  th.e  devil 
has  up  his  sleeve  for  a  bunch  like  this,  and  might 
miss  the  fun  if  you  dropped  in  singly,  along  with 
me  to  hell  every  last  man-jack  of  you  goes  in  the 
next  thirty  seconds !  " 

His  speech  and  manner  were  so  earnest  that 
all  in  easy  reach  of  his  voice  were  listening  to  him, 
although  most  of  the  players  remained  occupied 
with  their  games. 

But  while  he  had  been  talking  he  had  been  un 
screwing  the  top  of  his  powder  flask;  and  the 
moment  he  finished  speaking  he  opened  the  stove 
door  and  tossed  over  the  live  coals  enough  powder 
to  make  a  flash  that  startled  to  alarmed  attention 
the  farthest  players. 


32  THE  VANGUARD 

Then,  holding  the  flask  up  in  plain  view  of  all, 
he  rapidly  replaced  the  cap,  and  tossed  the  can  far 
back  into  the  deep  wood-stove! 

Did  they  move  ?  My  God !  but  they  did ;  broke 
into  a  madder  stampede  than  I  have  since  seen 
wild  broncos  or  steers  in;  worse  than  a  flight  of 
routed  cavalry;  all  jamming  in  a  cursing,  fighting 
tangle  for  a  chance  pf  exit  through  doors  or  win 
dows. 

Three  duelists  were  there,  famed  throughout 
the  State  for  their  cool  courage;  dozens  of  gam 
blers,  miners,  freighters,  rivermen,  reckless,  des 
perate  fighters  all,  bare  handed  or  with  weapons ; 
but,  like  all  men  confronting  a  wholly  new  type  of 
peril,  with  each  it  was  "  the  devil  take  the  hind 
most!  " 

Of  course  all  got  out,  ultimately,  torn  and  bleed 
ing  but  glad  to  be  still  alive. 

But  behind  them  they  left  ruin  a  cyclone  could 
hardly  have  surpassed;  bar,  tables,  doors  and 
sashes  were  kindling-wood. 

The  Butler  and  the  stove  alone  remained  un 
scathed  ! 


—  II  — 

THE  TALAMA  FIESTA 

RED  BLUFFS  did  not  hold  me  long.    Of 
river  boating,  prospecting  and  mining, 
and  of  cattle  ranching,  I  was  totally  ig 
norant.     Moreover  the  heavy  tide  of 
emigration  that  had  then  for  several  years  been 
pouring  thousands  into   California  by  both  the 
Overland  and  Isthmus  routes,  the  numerous  de 
sertions   from   shops   at   Frisco   and  San   Diego, 
and  the  rapidly  increasing  flood  of  Chinese,  that, 
later,  was  to  deluge  the  west  coast,  had  already 
made  labour  abundant. 

I  was  not  long  in  deciding,  therefore,  that  I 
had  best  make  for  the  logging  camps  tributary  to 
the  sawmills  of  the  Humboldt  Bay  port  of  Eu 
reka. 

And  it  was  with  no  small  misgivings  that  I 
struck  out  north  from  Red  Bluffs  quite  alone,  for 
no  road  or  trail  between  the  mountain  camps  and 
the  coast  was  then  even  measurably  safe  for  trav 
ellers. 

Joaquin  Marrietta,  "  Three  Finger  Jack,"  and 
Tom  Bell  preyed  as  ruthlessly  upon  the  poorest 
emigrants  and  prospectors  as  upon  the  rich  miners 
and  merchants  and  the  fat  mail  pouches  and  treas- 

33 


34  THE  VANGUARD 

ure  boxes  of  the  stages.  From  the  fine-meshed 
net  of  violence  and  crime  with  which  they  dragged 
the  western  slope  from  Shasta  south  to  San  Gor- 
gonio  Pass,  there  was  no  more  chance  of  escape 
for  a  shrimp  than  for  a  tuna. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  little  enough  I  had  to  tempt 
even  the  greediest  plunderer  of  them  all.  Noth 
ing,  indeed,  but  my  poor  little  cayuse,  the  wreck  of 
a  saddle  and  my  already  well-loved  pistol;  but  it 
was  my  all,  and  to  lose  these  would  leave  me  poor 
indeed. 

Thus  it  was  with  every  sense  alert,  keen  as  a 
mousing  cat,  that  I  trotted  north  along  the  stage 
road,  my  hand  on  my  pistol  while  threading  thick 
ets,  slipping  gingerly  around  turns  in  the  road. 

Nor  was  I  long  running  into  trouble.  And 
the  oddest  thing  of  all  is  that  when  trouble  of  any 
sort  first  breaks  about  me  I  have  always  felt 
"  scared  half  to  death,"  possessed  by  an  almost 
over-mastering  inclination  to  run  from  it,  and  yet 
in  the  next  breath  could  never  get  my  own  consent 
to  keep  from  butting  straight  into  it. 

Funny!  I  never  could  understand  it  myself. 
And  yet,  come  to  think  of  it,  not  so  funny  after 
all,  for  it  was  the  wild  lust  of  battling  that  with 
me  was  always  crowding  close  on  the  heels  of  all 
my  biggest  scares  that  plunged  me  into  all  my 
most  serious  difficulties. 

But  one  thing  I  can  truthfully  say;  few  of  the 
rows  I  have  been  in  have  come  of  any  personal 
grievance  of  my  own,  or  of  first  aggression  by  me; 
usually  they  have  resulted  from  my  interference 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  35 

when  I  have  found  others  getting  the  worst  of  it. 

And  since  I  was  still  a  stranger  to  gun  fighting, 
it  was  a  devil  of  a  big  scare  I  got  early  my  third 
morning  out  of  Red  Bluffs,  when  suddenly  I  heard 
a  heavy  fusillade  of  shots  only  a  short  distance 
ahead  of  me.  At  the  moment  I  was  crossing  the 
crest  of  a  high  hill,  the  road  walled  in  by  tall  tim 
ber  and  occasional  patches  of  dense  scrub. 

The  heavy,  dull  roar  of  shotguns  was  answered 
by  the  angry,  snappy  bark  of  rifles  and  pistols. 
I  knew  it  was  a  hold-up  of  some  sort,  probably 
of  the  stage,  for  I  was  due  to  meet  the  down  coach 
thereabouts. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  ride  my  cayuse  to  death 
getting  away  from  the  sound  of  that  firing;  but  — 
why,  the  Lord  only  knows  —  what  I  really  did, 
on  another  impulse,  immediately  sequent  on  the 
first  and  wholly  without  deliberation,  was  to  hide 
and  tie  my  horse  in  a  bunch  of  scrub  and  to  begin 
a  swift  stalk  toward  the  racket. 

An  advance  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
brought  me  to  the  top  of  the  north  slope  of  the 
hill  I  was  crossing,  and  in  full  view  of  as  nervy 
a  single-handed  fight  as  I  have  seen  since,  after 
a  lifetime  spent  at  the  game. 

Later  I  learned  the  coach  carried,  besides  the 
driver,  the  "  messenger,"  or  guard,  Billy  Dobson, 
and  a  deputy  sheriff,  both  on  the  box  with  the 
driver;  behind  them,  a  miner  and  a  cattleman; 
back  of  them,  on  the  roof  of  the  coach,  nine  China 
men;  inside,  an  old  negress  and  five  other  passen 
gers;  and  that  just  as  the  team  was  straining  up 


36  THE  VANGUARD 

the  last  steep  ascent,  blown  and  weak  of  their  long 
pull,  suddenly  out  of  the  bush  rode  a  man  on  a 
black  mule,  who  levelled  a  shotgun  at  Dobson  and 
called,  "  Hands  up  and  keep  your  seats,  and  we 
will  not  shoot  1  " 

"  Shoot  and  be  damned!"  was  Dobson's  an 
swer,  and  as  his  lips  were  framing  the  words  he 
jerked  his  cap-and-ball  pistol  and  fired,  hitting  the 
hold-up  fairly  in  the  centre  of  the  stomach  just 
that  small  fraction  of  a  second  ahead  of  the  hold 
up's  shot  to  spell  a  win.  But,  his  mule  whirling 
at  the  flash  of  the  messenger's  shot,  the  slugs  from 
the  bandit's  shotgun  entered  the  coach  and  killed 
the  old  negress. 

Instantly  five  more  bandits  jumped  out  of  the 
brush  and  opened  fire  on  Dobson,  and  it  was  a 
very  few  seconds  later  I  had  the  scene  in  full 
view. 

And  it  was  both  a  heroic  and  humorous  scene 
I  there  beheld.  The  Chinks  were  tumbling  off  the 
roof  of  the  coach  and  ducking  into  cover,  scream 
ing  like  they  had  lost  their  pigtails ;  the  cattleman 
was  showing  a  fancier  burst  of  speed  than  any  of 
the  Chinks,  and  the  high  coach  door  was  jammed 
with  a  fighting,  screeching  tangle  of  the  insiders. 

The  deputy  sheriff,  too  frightened  to  fight,  was 
struggling  with  the  unarmed  driver  for  shelter 
within  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  stage  boot, 
while  above  them  stood  the  grim,  cool  Dobson,  an 
open,  sky-lined  target  for  all  his  enemies,  rapidly 
emptying  his  pistol  at  them.  On  the  ground,  be 
side  the  off  door  of  the  coach,  the  old  miner  stood 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  37 

at  bay,  his  emptied  derringer  in  one  hand  and  a 
sack  of  gold-dust  in  the  other,  cursing  the  robbers 
and  daring  them  to  come  within  his  reach. 

While  obviously  the  circus  was  no  proper  affair 
of  mine,  right  there  I  was  swept  by  a  great  wave 
of  resentment  at  the  unfairness  of  the  fight,  the 
hopelessness  of  the  odds  the  one  man  was  so 
bravely  battling  with  —  a  wave  of,  well,  I  suppose 
we  may  call  it  sentiment,  which  has  since  swept  me 
into  many  a  like  pickle. 

And  no  more  had  the  wave  hit  me  than  I  went 
into  action  —  sprang  down  the  hill  and  dropped 
one  of  the  robbers  with  my  old  cap-and-ball. 

A  rear  attack  too  much  for  them,  the  gang 
whirled  in  flight  so  quickly  that  my  second  shot 
was  at  a  back  disappearing  in  the  bush. 

"  Well,  partner,"  Dobson  called  down  from 
his  perch  on  the  box,  "  I  don't  know  who  the  hell 
you  are,  and  I  don't  care,  but  I  am  mighty  glad 
to  have  met  up  with  you.  If  Old  Shovel-and-Pan 
down  there  had  been  heeled  proper  —  and,  Uncle, 
you're  taking  powerful  big  risks  on  your  health, 
chasing  round  with  no  better  shooting-iron  than 
that  little  toy  trick  you're  packing  —  we  might 
have  stood  them  off  by  ourselves  —  hey,  Uncle? 
But  as  for  this  cur  here  " —  looking  down  at  the 
still  grovelling  deputy  sheriff  — "  well  —  Oh, 
hell!" 

And  then  he  deliberately  stepped  squarely  in  the 
middle  of  the  pale  and  twitching  face,  and  sprang 
to  the  ground! 

"  Didn't  git  to  make  a  clean-up  on  our  slice- 


3  8  THE  VANGUARD 

boxes,  anyhow  —  did  they?"  grinned  the  miner. 
And  then  we  dug  the  driver  out  of  the  boot  and 
began  straightening  out  the  team. 

It  took  us  a  good  half-hour  rounding  up  the 
passengers,  shouting  until  we  hardly  had  another 
yell  left  in  us,  and  three  of  the  Chinks  never  did 
show  up.  Reckon  they  are  running  yet,  some 
where  in  lower  Chile. 

Three  days  later  an  up-road  driver  told  me  the 
posse  made  up  to  take  the  trail  of  the  bandits 
found  their  wounded  leader  only  a  few  miles  from 
the  scene  of  the  attack,  his  black  mule  standing 
beside  him  like  a  dog.  The  man  turned  out  to 
be  no  other  than  Tom  Bell  himself,  the  first  of 
the  big  leaders  of  the  worst  gangs  of  road-agents 
in  those  parts  to  have  his  light  put  out. 

While  mortally  wounded,  his  record  of  crimes 
was  so  long  and  red  that  the  posse  hung  him  where 
they  found  him,  but  not  until  after  he  had  begged 
them  to  write  his  mother  the  fact  of  his  death 
without  revealing  to  her  its  cause,  and  received 
their  pledge  to  hold  his  true  name  secret. 

That  somewhere  deep  hidden  in  the  man's  na 
ture  was  a  kindly  strain  come  of  wholesome  if  not 
of  gentle  breeding  was  pointed  in  another  and 
most  curious  way.  Bell's  black  mule  showed  for 
him  a  devotion  that  at  the  same  time  lifted  both 
master  and  beast  above  classification  as  the  brutes 
they  were  to  all  except  to  each  other  —  a  devotion 
the  mule  could  never  have  conceived  except  in  re 
sponse  to  unremitting  kindness  from  his  master's 
hands. 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  39 

When  the  posse  tried  to  lead  the  mule  away 
from  his  dead  master,  he  fought  them,  tooth  and 
hoof,  until  some  wanted  to  shoot  him.  But  the 
spirit  of  the  beast  made  one  man  greedy  of  him; 
and  on  with  him  they  tussled  until  finally  he  was 
overcome. 

But  no  more  than  half  an  hour  later,  when,  de 
ceived  by  an  apparently  complete  surrender,  his 
captor  grew  careless  and  loosened  his  grip  on  the 
turns  of  his  reata  about  his  saddle-horn,  away 
dashed  the  mule,  galloping  down  grade  and  fol 
lowed  by  the  party.  Reaching  a  stretch  of  road 
that  was  a  mere  shelf  along  the  edge  of  a  cliff  that 
fell  a  sheer  sixty  feet  to  a  slope  thickly  strewn  with 
boulders,  he  stopped,  stiff-legged,  on  the  brink 
and  stood  for  an  instant  looking  down. 

Then,  after  gazing  back  at  his  pursuers  a  mo 
ment,  muzzle  raised  high  and  eyes  blazing  hatred, 
contempt,  defiance,  and  perhaps  —  who  may  ven 
ture  to  dispute  it?  —  a  proud  joy  of  the  sure  es 
cape  he  had  planned,  he  leaped  far  out  into  space ! 

As  the  posse  sat  their  panting  mounts,  gazing 
in  awe  down  upon  the  pulpy  black  blotch  that  lay 
quite  still  among  the  boulders,  a  grizzled  old 
mountaineer  remarked: 

"  Fellers,  wish't  I  had  a  woman  that  thought 
as  much  o'  me  as  that  thar  mule  thought  of 
Torn!'' 

"Beats  hell,  don't  it?"  observed  another. 
"  Pow'ful  human  sort  o'  thing  to  do,  wa'n't  it? 
Mule  just  naturally  .'lowed  it  couldn't  live  none 
without  Tom!  " 


40  THE  VANGUARD 

Pounding  along  the  trail  north  after  that  bit 
of  a  scrap,  and  especially  after  learning  that  all 
but  the  one  I  downed  and  the  wounded  man  had 
escaped,  was  for  me  a  pretty  "  scary  "  job.  Of 
course  it  was  only  a  guess  as  to  which  way  the 
bandits  had  scattered,  and  I  found  it  hard  to  get 
it  out  of  my  head  that  they  were  likely  to  be  lay 
ing  for  me,  to  even  things  up  for  my  interference 
in  their  game. 

Thus  when,  near  Shasta  a  few  days  later,  I 
heard  shouts  below  me,  I  was  not  slow  racing  into 
a  side  ravine  and  hiding  my  horse.  Then,  when 
I  crept  back  close  to  the  trail  and  hid  behind  a  log 
I  could  see  under,  it  was  only  a  moment  before 
two  men,  each  splendidly  mounted  and  heavily 
armed,  rode  up  directly  in  front  of  me  and 
stopped.  One,  reining  his  own  horse  back  on  his 
haunches  and  at  the  same  time  seizing  the  head 
stall  of  his  mate's  mount,  said,  "  Hold  on, 
Peach !" 

''What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  other;  "I 
don't  sense  anything  that  spells  cuidado." 

"  Caramba  pard,"  replied  the  first  speaker;  "  I 
smell  a  d — d  emigrant;  don't  you?  " 

That  meant  me,  I  knew  only  too  well,  for  while 
sure  they  could  not  have  seen  me,  nevertheless, 
miserably  ragged  and  travel-stained  as  I  was  after 
months  of  hard  journeying  without  means  to  pro 
cure  a  change  of  clothing,  their  highly  trained 
olfactories  had  marked  me  down  as  positively  as 
if  they  had  been  hunting  me  with  hounds. 

And  so,  knowing  escape  to  be  impossible  from 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  41 

such  a  pair,  I  mustered  courage  enough  —  and  it 
took  a  plenty  —  to  step  into  the  open  and  inquire : 
"  Were  you  speaking  to  me?  " 

When  they  were  recovered  from  gales  of  laugh 
ter  that  doubled  them  over  their  saddle-horns,  the 
man  addressed  as  Peach  remarked:  "  Cox,  I'll 
sure  back  your  old  smeller  against  Loud's  or  any 
other  hound's  on  the  coast,  trailing  bear  or  hu 
mans."  And  then,  turning  to  me:  "Well,  son, 
who  in  the  h — 1  might  you  be,  and  where  do  you 
come  from?  " 

Reassured  somewhat  by  their  merriment  and 
tones,  I  replied,  "  Guess  I'm  the  emigrant  you 
smelled,  and  I've  just  come  down  from  the 
Truckee  Meadows." 

"  So,  son?"  queried  Peach.  And  then,  after 
a  pause,  "  Cox,  the  kid  looks  to  me  like  he  has 
some  strips  of  good  tough  leather  in  him;  let's 
adopt  him."  Adding,  to  me,  "  Kid,  you  are  foxy; 
thought  you'd  hide  your  horse  on  us,  didn't  you? 
But  you've  got  a  few  tricks  to  learn,  and  I  reckon 
it's  up  to  my  partner  and  me  to  teach  you. 

"  That  spur  on  your  off  hind  heel  is  giving  you 
away;  step  out  yonder  and  bring  in  your  horse, 
and  bank  on  a  straight  deal  with  us.  Come  along; 
we'll  treat  you  white,  make  you  a  sure  enough 
vaquero  and  see  you  don't  lose  nothing  in  wages." 

Ashamed  of  my  stupidity  in  having  forgotten 
to  remove  my  one  spur,  for  I  had  intended  to  try 
to  dissemble  ownership  of  a  horse,  for  fear  the 
pair  would  set  me  afoot,  I  brought  in  the  little 
cayuse  I  had  worked  so  hard  to  earn,  to  get  from 


42  THE  VANGUARD 

Cox  a  "  Ho !  ho !  looks  like  you  have  been  hitting 
up  the  Pah-Utes  for  a  ride,  kid.  And  since  that 
ain't  quite  our  lay,  Peach,  at  least  as  a  business,  I 
vote  we  pass  him  up." 

Resentful  of  the  charge,  I  angrily  exclaimed: 
"Damn  you,  I'm  no  thief!  Here's  my  bill  of 
sale." 

After  both  had  scrutinised  the  bit  of  paper,  Cox 
laughingly  spoke.  "  Peach,  he'll  do,  twice  — 
came  by  his  cayuse  on  the  level  and  has  his  nice 
little  chunk  of  temper  handy.  Must  have  a  plenty, 
too,  for  we  can't  look  like  none  too  easy  marks 
for  a  tenderfoot  like  him  to  start  in  cussing.  Fork 
that  cayuse,  kid,  and  let's  drift." 

And  so  started  an  association  that  meant  no 
end  of  value  to  me  in  respect  of  training  and 
experience  for  a  lifetime  of  dealing  with  the 
toughest  desperadoes  the  West  has  produced.  It 
was  an  association  that  grew  into  as  close  a  friend 
ship  as  can  exist  with  men  as  desperate  and  reck 
less  as  that  pair,  and  that  remained  unbroken  until 
I  found  them  drifting  into  crime.  They  were  so 
impelled  for  no  reason  in  the  world  but  for  their 
love  of  its  incident  excitement,  for  each  was  such 
a  master  of  horse  and  cattle  craft  that  honest, 
profitable  employment  was  never  lacking. 

Ah!  but  they  were  marvels,  that  pair.  Their 
like,  their  equal  as  vaqueros,  whether  with  horses 
or  cattle,  I  never  since  have  seen.  And  this  is 
saying  a  good  deal,  for  at  that  time  the  ranch 
industry  of  California  still  remained  the  chief  busi 
ness  of  her  native  sons.  At  no  period  of  the  later 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  43 

development  of  ranching,  either  in  Texas  or  the 
Northwest,  could  either  section  justly  boast 
bronco-busters  or  experts  with  the  reata  anything 
like  the  equal  of  the  California  Mexican  vaqueros. 

The  vast  central  plain  of  the  State,  the  inter- 
mountain  region  lying  between  the  Sierra  Ne- 
vadas  and  the  Coast  Range,  that  since  has  become 
the  granary  of  the  West  Coast,  was  then  a  bound 
less  field  of  wild  oats  upon  which  ranged  and  fat 
tened  uncounted  thousands  of  wild  cattle  and 
horses.  Prior  to  the  discovery  of  gold  at  Sut- 
ter's  mill,  no  market  existed  except  for  the  hides 
of  slaughtered  cattle,  whose  meat  was  left  to  rot 
upon  the  ranges. 

Thus  neither  cattle  nor  horses  were  often 
"worked"  (rounded  up  and  handled)  as  they 
were,  later,  after  both  came  into  strong  demand  at 
good  prices.  Therefore,  they  remained  as  wild 
and  ignorant  of  restraint  as  the  grizzlies  and 
mountain  lion  that  preyed  upon  their  young. 

It  naturally  followed  that,  for  such  little  han 
dling  as  they  did  have,  the  very  exigencies  of  the 
situation  produced  a  class  of  daring,  clever  horse 
men  never  excelled  in  the  world's  history,  habited 
always  in  the  now  well-known  gorgeous  trappings 
of  the  Mexican  cowboy. 

And  then  their  saddles!  If  any  inanimate 
handiwork  of  man  ever  owned  the  dignity  and 
grace,  any  of  it,  that  in  creatures  animate  we  rec 
ognise  as  marking  a  thoroughbred  ancestry,  a 
product  of  generations  of  careful  selective  breed 
ing,  it  is  the  characteristic  California  saddle. 


44  THE  VANGUARD 

No  saddle  ever  made  has  equalled  it,  either  in 
beauty  or  for  the  safe  handling  of  the  most  mas 
sive  bull  that  ranged  the  foot-hills  behind  Visalia. 
The  neck  of  its  horn,  or  pommel,  was  as  thin  and 
gracefully  curved  as  the  neck  of  a  Derby  win 
ner;  its  tall  cantel  rose  high  and  comfortable  as 
those  the  Cid  and  his  panoplied  knights  jousted 
in.  The  great  leather  stirrup  housings  protected 
the  feet  from  thorns  and  storms,  and  weighted 
the  stirrup  for  easy  recovery  when  lost  by  the 
rider  in  his  mad  combats  with  the  wild  ones;  the 
sturdy  shoulders,  broad-spreading  beneath  its 
neck,  easily  bore  the  stress  of  the  mightiest  tugs; 
the  smooth-slipping  cinch  enabled  the  easy  tight 
ening  of  one's  saddle  upon  his  mount,  even  when 
going  at  top  speed.  Such  were  some  of  the  more 
notable  qualities  of  this  king  of  all  saddles ! 

And  then,  again,  their  reatas,  their  forty  to 
sixty  foot  lariats,  plaited  of  rawhide,  dressed  until 
soft  as  a  glove,  slender,  light  of  weight,  and  yet 
thewed  as  if  with  steel.  This  rope  made  a 
weapon  so  deadly  in  the  hands  of  a  well-mounted 
expert  in  its  use  that  he  feared  the  attack  of  no 
beast,  and  of  no  man  armed  otherwise  than  with 
guns. 

Ah,  but  it  was  a  rare  lot  of  horsemen  that  life 
bred! 

Wonderful,  indeed,  were  the  tourneys  when  the 
ranches,  from  Don  Juan  Foster's  sun-kissed  Santa 
Margarita,  nestling  among  the  ice-plants  near  the 
Pacific  surges  that  in  elder  days  were  ever  adding 
their  deep  bass  notes  to  the  solemn  chorus  of  San 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  45 

Juan  Capistrano's  Mission  bells,  from  Santa 
Margarita  up  north  to  the  highest  cloud-shrouded 
ranch  hidden  among  the  oaks  and  pines  of  the 
foot-hills,  poured  their  silver  and  gold  buttoned 
and  braided  champions  into  one  plaza  or  another 
—  that  of  Los  Angeles,  Fresno,  Visalia,  or  of  far 
northern  Talama  —  there  to  match  their  craft 
and  skill  against  all  comers. 

So,  I  repeat,  it  means  a  lot  when  I  say  that  my 
new  mates,  Peach  and  Cox,  were  eminently  the 
best  all-round  vaqueros  I  have  ever  seen.  In 
deed,  in  my  long  experience  with  them,  no  wild 
cayuse  or  heavy  half-breed  did  we  get  hold  of 
that  either  could  not  easily  master.  And,  what 
was  most  unusual,  even  with  the  best  riders,  was 
that  they  were  as  ready  to  climb  a  bronco  bare 
back  as  saddled,  and,  once  fairly  on  one,  never 
did  either  get  thrown.  And  that  is  about  the  last 
test  of  any  man's  horsemanship. 

Peach  was  a  man  of  massive,  powerful  build, 
broad  of  shoulder,  thick  of  chest,  and  heavy  of 
thigh  and  biceps;  of  medium  height,  fair  haired, 
blue  eyes  always  alight  and  alert  for  a  chance  of 
any  sort  of  devilment;  a  far  more  than  average 
clever  boxer,  an  all-round  athlete  who  seldom 
touched  a  stirrup  to  mount  a  horse;  an  amiable 
daredevil  when  sober,  a  brute  as  dangerous  to 
friend  as  to  enemy  when  drunk. 

George  Cox,  while  a  swarthy  wisp  of  a  man, 
more  slender  than  an  Apache  runner,  lithe  almost 
to  emaciation,  just  a  gaunt  frame  of  bone  and  sea 
soned  sinew,  with  the  sort  of  narrow-set  black 


46  THE  VANGUARD 

eyes  that  always  begin  to  glint  red  fires  the  mo 
ment  anything,  no  matter  how  trivial,  draws  their 
attention  —  eyes  ever  on  guard  against  a  possible 
turn  of  the  simplest  situation  into  the  worst  — 
was  an  infinitely  more  deadly  dangerous  man  than 
Peach.  In  spite  of  that,  he  was  a  far  more  gen 
erous,  kind,  and  reliable  mate  than  his  partner, 
even  in  his  cups.  Slower  than  Peach  to  find  cause 
of  quarrel,  once  roused  he  was  chain  lightning  in 
action  and  utterly  relentless. 

Cox's  one  great  passion  was  killing  Mexicans. 
He  never  missed  a  chance.  In  fact,  he  hunted 
chances  so  persistently  I  always  believed  he  must 
have  suffered  some  great  injury  at  their  hands. 
Nor  did  I  particularly  blame  him  for  this,  for 
never  to  my  knowledge  did  h.e  kill  one  that  did 
not  deserve  it. 

But  the  hatred  of  the  California  Mexicans  of 
that  time  for  Americans  was  not  inexcusable.  It 
was  no  more  than  the  expression  of  a  wholly  nat 
ural  resentment  of  our  intrusion  into  and  disrup 
tion  of  the  idyllic  pastoral  life  that  clustered  about 
their  placltas  and  missions  before  our  conquest  of 
their  sunny  land. 

For  that  old  life  had  been  one  of  music  and  of 
song,  wherein  the  rhythm  of  the  softly  thrummed 
guitars  of  the  night's  fandango  was  still  ringing 
in  their  ears  when  the  mellow  notes  of  the  mission 
bells  called  them  to  the  melodious  intonations  of 
morning  mass. 

Cox's  best-loved  amusement  was  gambling,  and 
at  all  sorts  of  games  he  owned  a  skill  and  refine- 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  47 

ment  of  art  that  suggested  graduation  under  the 
training  of  more  than  one  high  priest  of  the  tem 
ples  of  chance,  an  adroitness  that  kept  him  flush 
of  cash  as  often  as  opportunity  for  play  offered. 
Peach,  also,  was  an  inveterate  gambler,  but  his 
money  was  usually  such  an  easy  gift  to  whomso 
ever  he  went  against  that  it  kept  Cox  working 
overtime  to  keep  him  staked. 

However,  wild,  unruly  and  desperately  reck 
less  as  the  pair  were,  it  is  only  truth  to  record  that 
when  I  met  them  they  were  engaged  in  none  but 
honest  employment,  for  their  business  was  that 
of  breaking  wild  horses  on  contract,  taking  their 
pay  in  kind,  and  driving  to  Stockton  or  to  the 
mining-camps  and  there  selling  their  share. 

Early  in  our  association  they  found  I  was  dis 
inclined  to  engage  in  the  mad,  drunken  orgies 
that  they  invariably  plunged  into  as  soon  as  a 
newly  earned  bunch  of  horses  was  sold.  They 
also  soon  realised  that  they  were  not  my  match 
at  any  sort  of  gun  play  except  snap  shooting. 

From  these  two  conditions  it  resulted  that  they 
soon  took  me  in  as  a  full  third  partner  in  their 
trade  of  horse  breaking,  and  made  me  custodian 
of  all  our  joint  funds.  And  it  was  precisely  that 
same  job  of  treasurer  that  proved  one  of  the 
hardest  I  ever  tried  to  hold  down,  the  job  of  all 
I  ever  had  I  should  have  been  gladdest  to  lose. 

For  trying  to  conserve  the  funds  of  that  pair, 
by  all  kinds  of  strategy  to  break  them  loose  from 
their  debauches  and  get  them  back  to  work,  kept 
me  nearer  death's  door  for  longer  and  more  fre- 


48  THE  VANGUARD 

quent  periods  than  any  of  the  many  treasure-guard 
ing  jobs  that  since  have  come  my  way. 

But  always  in  our  open  range  camps,  while  busy 
on  our  bronco  breaking  contracts  or  on  the  drives 
of  our  own  horses  to  market,  they  were  kindness 
itself  to  me,  and  did  their  best  to  train  me  as  an 
expert  bronco  buster  and  all-round  vaquero. 

Indeed  I  believe  it  was  they  who  invented  the 
"  buck  strap"  (a  narrow  strap  riveted  to  the 
leather  housing  of  the  saddle  just  below  and  on 
the  off  side  of  the  base  of  the  horn)  for  my  benefit, 
a  device  later  universally  used  by  all  riders  of  the 
wild  buckers  except  the  few  past  masters  to  whom 
"  leather  pulling,"  any  form  of  hand  hold  other 
than  on  the  bridle  reins,  was  a  disgrace. 

And  while  ultimately  I  became  a  lot  better  than 
an  average  good  rider,  even  with  the  help  of  the 
"  buck  strap  "  I  was  never  near  equalling  their 
free-handed  saddle  work. 

Thus  employed,  many  months  slipped  quickly 
away,  weeks  of  the  hardest  kind  of  battling  with 
the  broncos  succeeded  by  a  few  days  in  one 
market  town  or  another.  These  latter  days  were 
one  long  debauch  for  my  mates,  whom  I  avoided  as 
much  as  possible  except  when  they  were  at  their 
worst,  when  I  stayed  by  to  try  to  restrain  them, 
for  I  myself  never  loved  a  needless  broil. 

During  this  period  they  contrived  to  pull  off 
something  more  than  half  a  dozen  killings,  but  al 
ways  of  Mexicans  and  under  circumstances  that 
brought  them  no  serious  trouble  from  the  au 
thorities. 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  49 

The  holidays  of  1858-1859  found  us  down  in 
Red  Bluffs,  strong  in  cash  from  the  proceeds  of  a 
good  contract  just  then  finished.  There  we  heard 
that  the  great  mid-winter  fiesta  was  then  on  in  the 
Mexican  cow  town  of  Talama,  twelve  miles  down 
the  river.  This  fair  emptied  the  ranches  for  miles 
around  of  their  lithe,  brown  lasses,  mantillaed  or 
rebozoed,  according  to  their  station,  and  of  be 
spangled,  dour-visaged  dons  and  vaqueros,  for  all 
of  whom  this  annual  fiesta  was  the  great  event  of 
their  lives. 

And  big  event  indeed  it  was,  the  plaza  thronged 
from  dawn  until  far  past  midnight  with  a  jostling 
throng,  alight  with  the  brilliant  hues  of  scrapes 
and  rebozos,  and  blazing  with  the  silver  and  gold 
decked  costumes  of  the  men,  where  they  were 
gambling,  crowding  about  the  bronco-riding  con 
tests  in  the  bul!7ring,  or  lined  thick  along  the  race 
course. 

Scattered  among  these  hundreds  of  native  Cali- 
fornians  were  always  a  few  score  Americans, 
bearded,  heavy-booted  miners;  skin-clad,  leather- 
faced  trappers  from  the  Sierras;  ranchers,  cow 
boys,  and  bronco-riders,  these  latter  outgauding 
even  the  natives,  with  bridle-bits 'and  spurs  inlaid 
with  silver,  sombreros  and  stirrup-leathers  em 
broidered  with  silver  or  gold,  pistol-butts  set  with 
twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  —  every  last  man-jack 
of  the  gringos  more  or  less  heavily  and  gaudily 
armed.  For  the  bitterest  enmity  was  constantly 
burning  between  the  natives  and  the  intruders;  and 
while  the  former  were  still  chiefly  armed  with  only 


50  THE  VANGUARD 

their  traditional  reatas  and  knives,  their  majority 
was  so  heavy  that  the  latter  would  have  been  up 
against  hopeless  odds  without  their  artillery. 

Knowing  this  show  was  sure  to  spell  trouble  of 
some  sort,  I  tried  my  best  to  get  my  mates  to  stay 
away  from  it,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  best  I  could 
do  was  to  win  their  promise  to  side-step  all  drink 
for  that  week  and  to  keep  away  from  the  fiesta 
until  its  last  day,  when  its  seven  days  of  mixed 
thrills  were  to  be  topped  by  a  battle  between  a 
nine-hundred-pound  grizzly  bear,  recently  roped 
and  captured  in  the  foot-hills,  and  a  three-year-old 
bay  bull,  light  and  active  and  famed  as  the  most 
vicious  on  the  neighbouring  ranges. 

I  am  bound  to  admit  that,  while  fearful  of  the 
consequences  for  all  of  us  going  where  Peach  and 
Cox  would  be  sure  to  encounter  so  many  attract 
ive  chances  for  a  fresh  killing,  I  was  myself  mighty 
keen  to  see  that  bear-bull  fight. 

So  the  afternoon  of  the  fight  the  three  of  us 
rode  into  Talama,  put  up  our  horses  in  a  feed- 
corral,  bought  tickets  for  the  show,  and  got  seats 
near  the  ring.  The  rude  benches  encircling  the 
ring  were  packed;  the  entire  populace  of  Talama 
and  its  tributary  countryside  was  there  assembled ; 
all  came,  from  the  oldest,  shrivelled  hag  to  the 
newest  pucker-mouthed  baby  in  arms. 

Perhaps  as  many  as  twoscore  Americans  were 
scattered  through  the  audience,  in  little  groups, 
none  monkeying  about  much  singly. 

The  afternoon's  sport  opened  with,  some  fine 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  51 

riding  and  roping  contests,  but  out  of  these  I  suc 
ceeded  in  keeping  my  mates. 

Then  at  last  came  the  great  event  of  the  day  — 
with  wild  shouts  and  ki-yis  the  bear  was  admitted 
to  the  ring  from  an  adjoining  pen,  his  little  eyes 
blazing  fury,  his  shining  teeth  alternately  bared 
and  snapping  at  the  keen-biting  banderillas 
(barbed  darts)  with  which  the  Mexicans  had  set 
his  massive,  grizzled  shoulders  abristle  to  rouse 
his  wrath. 

A  youngster,  scarcely  matured  and  yet  certainly 
close  to  a  thousand  pounds  in  weight,  his  great 
curved,  black  claws  and  ivory  fangs  were  prime, 
unbroken,  and,  backed  by  his  vast  bulk  and  sup 
ple  activity,  looked  such  a  terrible  menace  to  any 
adversary  that  any  unfamiliar  with  the  frightful 
ferocity  of  attack  of  the  long-horned  champions 
of  the  California  cattle-ranges  would  have  laid 
heavy  odds  on  the  bear. 

But,  familiar  as  all  there  were  with  both,  the 
betting  odds  stood  two  to  one  on  the  bull,  with 
comparatively  few  takers. 

Presently,  another  gate  was  opened  and  into 
the  ring  bounded  the  bear's  adversary,  head 
angrily  tossing  a  pair  of  long  horns,  straight  and 
sharp-pointed  as  rapiers.  The  animal  was  pale 
red  of  back  but  tawny  as  a  lion  of  flank,  high 
and  broad  of  shoulders,  but  lean  of  flank  and 
light  of  quarters  —  a  characteristic  type  of  build, 
I  have  since  learned,  that  clearly  proved  his  de 
scent  from  the  famous  Utreran  fighting  stock  that 


52  THE  VANGUARD 

for  centuries  has  furnished  the  bull-rings  of  Spain 
their  most  thralling  spectacles. 

With  raw,  savage  gladiators  like  these,  strategy 
was  bound  to  be  simple  and  brief. 

Instantly  the  bull  entered,  the  bear  rose  on  his 
hind  legs  and  slowly  advanced  toward  him,  great 
claws  alternately  protruding  and  disappearing  as, 
with  a  slight  swaying  of  the  shoulders,  he  suppled 
his  muscles  for  action. 

Meantime  the  bull  was  circling  the  bear  at  an 
easy  trot,  closely  eying  his  antagonist,  his  shoul 
ders  a-quiver  of  the  pain  of  the  ribbon-wrapped 
darts  nodding  above  them  like  the  plumes  of  an 
Indian  war-bonnet. 

After  a  turn  and  a  half  around  the  bear  the 
bull  backed  away  until  near  the  outer  barrier  of 
the  ring,  where  he  stopped,  facing  the  bear,  bel 
lowing  and  filling  the  air  with  clouds  of  dust 
raised  by  his  angrily  pawing  hoofs,  the  act  both 
a  threat  and  a  challenge.  Perhaps  a  full  minute 
the  two  beasts  so  stood  facing  each  other.  Then 
the  bear  shook  himself,  voiced  a  furious  growl, 
and  began  a  swift  advance.  This  was  precisely 
what  the  bull  had  been  waiting  for,  obviously,  for 
scarcely  had  the  bear  got  under  full  headway  be 
fore  the  bull  charged  him. 

The  impact  was  terrific.  As  they  came  to 
gether,  two  great  clawed  feet  for  a  second  ripped 
and  tore  the  glossy  red  shoulders,  but  in  the  very 
same  instant  one  long,  swordlike  horn  plunged 
full  length  into  the  bear's  chest.  The  speed  of 
the  bull  was  such  that,  checked  by  his  terrific  thrust, 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  53 

he  turned  a  complete  somersault,  and  hit  the 
ground  on  his  back  with  force  sufficient,  it  sounded, 
to  burst  him  asunder. 

But,  no;  it  did  not  seem  even  to  jar  him.  In 
an  instant  he  was  up,  and  once  again  he  thrust  the 
same  red-dripping  horn  deep  into  the  bear's  still 
quivering  flank,  backed  away,  as  if  realising  his 
task  was  finished,  as  in  truth  it  was,  and  then 
walked  slowly  round  the  ring,  eyes  glinting  fury, 
head  tossing  proud  challenge  for  a  fresh  an 
tagonist. 

But  his  triumph  was  brief.  Directly  into  the 
ring  rode  two  beautifully  mounted  vaqueros,  and 
scarcely  had  he  turned  upon  them  when  one 
dropped  a  rope  over  his  horns,  the  other  snared 
both  his  hind  feet,  and  the  splendid  little  battler 
was  stretched  helpless  upon  the  ground.  Then 
others  entered,  mounted,  dropped  ropes  on  the 
stiffening  bulk  of  the  vanquished  bear,  and 
dragged  him  from  the  ring. 

The  moment  the  ring  was  cleared,  right  there 
the  Mexicans  sprung  a  trick  that  was  new  even  to 
my  mates.  With  the  help  of  shoemaker's  wax 
they  stuck  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece  fast  between 
the  bull's  horns  just  above  the  eyes.  Then,  when, 
the  horsemen  had  retired  and  the  one  footman 
remaining  in  the  pen  had  loosened  the  rope  with 
which  the  bull's  feet  had  been  "  hog-tied,"  and  had 
leaped  over  the  barrier,  and  the  bull  had  jumped 
to  his  feet,  madder  than  ever  of  the  rough  han 
dling  he  had  received,  those  beauties  of  Mexicans 
yelled  that  the  twenty  dollars  was  hung  up  as  a 


54  THE  VANGUARD 

prize  for  any  gringo  (American)  who  could  take 
it  off  the  bull  without  the  use  of  a  horse. 

What  do  you  think  of  that?  And  that  little 
chunk  of  brute  dynamite  sizzling  for  an  explosion 
of  wrath  that  left  him  no  pretty  thing  for  even 
a  well-mounted  man  to  tackle  single-handed ! 

Nobody  showed  any  evidence  of  appetite  for 
that  twenty  dollars.  Peach  and  Cox  sat  silent, 
awed,  as  I  dare  say  every  one  was,  by  the  devilish 
ingenuity  of  the  Mexicans  in  planning  such  a  test 
of  our  nerve.  In  fact,  neither  made  any  move 
until,  finally,  a  Mexican  ran  up  in  front  of  the 
three  of  us,  and  cried: 

"  You!  You,  there;  it's  you  the  twenty  dollars 
is  hung  up  for.  Get  it,  one  of  you,  if  you  are  not 
all  coyotes!  " 

It  is  a  miracle  George  Cox  did  not  kill  the 
speaker;  but  instead,  before  Peach  or  I  had  so 
much  as  contrived  to  speak,  Cox  was  in  the  ring. 
Instantly  out  flashed  my  pistol,  for  I  was  sure  we 
were  in  for  a  finish  fight  and  was  scared  half  to 
death. 

Peach  grabbed  my  wrist  and  whispered: 

"  Stow  the  gun,  kid.  Leave  it  to  Cox,  and 
watch  him  make  those  greasers  run  rings  round 
themselves." 

And  then,  right  there,  I  sure  enough  nearly 
froze  stiff,  for  instead  of  opening  on  the  Mexi 
cans,  as  I  supposed  he  would,  Cox  at  once  made 
it  apparent  that  he  contemplated  the  infinitely 
more  nerve-racking  stunt  of  accepting  their  chal 
lenge. 


THE  TALAMA  FIESTA  55: 

Indeed,  the  utter  recklessness  of  his  deed  I  did 
not  fully  appreciate  until,  years  later,  I  learned 
that  no  Spanish  bull-fighter,  banderillero  or  mata 
dor,  ever  ventures  near  a  standing  bull.  They 
always  wait  at  some  distance  until,  by  stamping 
the  ground  and  waving  flag  or  sword,  the  bull 
is  incited  to  charge  at  full  speed;  then,  and  not 
till  then,  they  advance  at  a  run  for  the  chance 
to  affix  a  banderilla  in  the  bull's  shoulder,  or  de 
liver  a  fatal  sword-thrust,  and  effect  a  safe  side 
step. 

This  for  the  very  good  reason  that  until  the 
beast's  great  bulk  is  at  full  speed  no  man  can  count 
on  safely  dodging  him. 

Cox's  leap  into  the  ring  had  attracted  the  bull's 
attention,  and  it  turned  and  faced  him,  gory  head 
lifted  high,  motionless,  save  for  an  angry  switch 
ing  of  the  tail.  The  distance  between  man  and 
beast  was  about  sixty  feet. 

For  more  than  a  minute  Cox  stood  still,  until 
he  had  fixed  the  bull's  attention.  Then  he  began 
a  brisk,  even-paced  walk  straight  toward  the  bull, 
never  shifting  his  steady  gaze  straight  into  his 
face. 

The  noisy,  jeering  mob  about  the  pen  fell  silent. 
All  present  must  have  held  their  breath;  I  know 
I  held  mine. 

Steadily  Cox  advanced,  and  still  the  bull  stood 
as  if  dazed  by  the  audacity  of  this  puny  antagonist. 
At  last,  after  an  age,  it  seemed,  and  just  as  the 
bull  began  to  paw  viciously,  the  indomitable  little 
man  stepped  within  arm's  length,  reached 


56  THE  VANGUARD 

plucked  the  coin  from  its  waxen  setting,  and  be 
gan  stepping  slowly  backward ! 

If  not  for  Cox's  own  nerve,  at  least  for  the 
nerve-tension  the  audience  was  under,  there  was 
a  limit,  a  breaking-point.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
while  Cox  was  still  within  ten  feet  of  the  bull, 
slowly  retiring,  all  of  the  Americans  and  not  a 
few  of  the  Mexicans  broke  into  wild  shrieks  and 
roars  of  applause  —  a  racket  that  seemed  to  rouse 
the  bull  to  action. 

He  charged,  sprung  like  an  arrow  from  its  bow ! 

But  quicker  yet  was  the  man,  for  with  a  light 
ning-swift  draw  Cox  lodged  a  bullet  fairly  in  the 
brute's  brain  and  dropped  it  at  his  feet. 


—  Ill  — 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME 


CHAGRINED  by  Cox's  success  in  re 
trieving  the  twenty-dollar  gold  piece 
from  its  wax  setting  between  the  bull's 
horns  at  the  Talama  fiesta,  the  Mexi 
cans  were  furious,  for  well  they  knew  none  of 
them  would  have  dared  to  attempt  the  feat,  much 
less  been  able  to  perform  it. 

Indeed,  no  more  was  the  bull  down,  and  Cox 
turned  to  rejoin  Peach  and  me,  than  here,  racing 
across  the  ring  toward  him,  came  a  hundred  or 
more  Mexicans  cursing,  yelling  the  only  complaint 
and  demand  they  could  think  of  —  that,  having 
killed  the  bull,  he  must  return  them  the  coin. 

But  before  they  reached  him  Peach  and  I  were 
by  his  side,  with  our  guns  drawn,  where  we  were 
quickly  joined  by  fifteen  or  twenty  Americans  keen 
to  see  fair  play.  Then  the  ring  filled  with  the 
entire  male  populace,  it  seemed,  all  clamouring 
for  the  coin  or  our  lives,  many  demanding  both. 

Meantime,  Cox  stood  smiling,  silent,  apparently 
delighted  with  the  prospect  of  a  real  matanza,  a: 
wholesale  killing.  But  Peach  himself  must  have 
felt  serious  doubts  of  the  result;  for  instead  of 
courting  trouble,  as  was  his  usual  custom,  he  told 

57 


58  THE  VANGUARD 

the  mob  in  fluent  Spanish  that  our  mate  had  ac 
cepted  their  foul  challenge,  had  fairly  won  a  prize 
none  of  them  would  have  dared  make  a  try  for, 
and  that  at  the  first  hostile  move  we  would  turn 
that  pen  into  a  shambles. 

Strange  it  was,  heavily  outnumbered  as  they 
had  us,  but  right  there  that  mob  "  let  go,"  melted, 
drifted,  until  our  little  group  and  the  stiffening 
carcass  of  the  bull  were  the  only  tenants  of  the 
pen. 

As  we  were  retiring  from  the  ring,  one  old 
grizzled  miner  turned  to  Cox  and  remarked, 
"  Pardner,  I  have  drawn  cards  at  death-hugs  with 
Comanches  and  Apaches,  and,  once,  got  my  gun 
broke  and  had  to  use  my  bowie  knife  to  carve  my 
life  loose  from  a  grizzly  that  wanted  it.  I'm  still 
good  for  a  fifty-mile  tramp,  on  a  pinch;  but  may 
I  be  cross-cut  and  stoped  out  till  I'm  plumb  holler 
if  I  believe  these  old  legs  of  mine  would  have 
carried  me  over  your  sixty-foot  march  on  that  red 
hellion.  They'd  just  naturally  Ve  buckled  and  let 
me  down,  ker-plunk." 

It  was  a  sentiment  which  I  am  sure  would  have 
had  many  cordial  subscribers  if  all  who  heard  it 
had  not  still  been  half  breathless  of  the  recent 
happenings. 

When,  presently,  both  the  gringo  and  greaser 
camps  had  become  calmed  down  a  bit,  riding  and 
roping  contests  were  resumed  which  soon  proved 
too  much  for  Peach.  In  the  preceding  autumn 
he  had  won  first  prize  at  the  Sacramento  fair,  both 
as  bronco  buster  and  with  the  reata,  and  it  would 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          59 

not  have  been  Peach  if  he  could  have  sat  inactive 
through  such  an  opportunity  to  humiliate  the 
Mexicans  with  a  display  of  his  superior  skill. 

Getting  his  horse,  and,  uninvited,  entering  the 
ring,  he  roped  and  tied  a  wild  steer  in  eighteen 
seconds  less  time  than  any  other  competitor. 
Where  others,  mounted  and  at  top  speed,  bent 
from  their  saddles  and  picked  up  from  the  ground 
ropes  and  handkerchiefs,  he  with  equal  certainty, 
picked  up  small  coins;  dropped  along  the  off  side 
of  his  horse  until  only  one  hand  and  a  foot  were 
in  sight  from  the  nigh  side,  meantime  shooting  be 
neath  the  horse's  neck  like  a  Comanche. 

At  all  this  the  Mexicans  glowered  jealously, 
and  nothing  but  our  good  luck  enabled  me  to  get 
my  mates  away  from  the  ring,  late  in  the  after 
noon,  with  cool  guns. 

They  told  me  that  through  it  all  I  was  white 
as  a  sheet,  and  I  dare  say  it  was  true,  for  I  know 
I  was  near  sick  of  fright.  Indeed,  I  took  good 
care  not  to  return  to  the  night's  gambling  and 
carousing  in  the  plaza,  and  for  a  wonder,  suc 
ceeded  in  persuading  Peach  and  Cox  to  stay  in 
camp  with  me. 

They  said  I  had  "  done  fine  "  in  the  jump  into 
the  bull  ring  to  meet  the  mob,  but  cursed  me  for 
a  coward  for  wanting  to  stay  away  from  the  plaza. 
But  for  me  it  was  easier  to  stand  their  jeers  than 
to  take  on  a  new  bunch  of  trouble. 

George  Peach  was  in  every  sense  a  hard  man, 
one  of  the  most  desperate  I  have  ever  known. 
He  had  an  actual  passion  for  fighting.  Power- 


60  THE  VANGUARD 

1 

fully  'built,  always  in  prime  condition  on  account 
of  hid  daily  gruelling  work  with  wild  broncos, 
wonderfully  quick  and  handy  with  his  fists,  he  was 
never  once  beaten  in  the  eight  or  ten  prize-fights 
he  engaged  in  during  the  time  I  was  with  him. 

That  is  saying  much  for  him,  as  in  those  days  the 
mining  camps  held  as  able  a  lot  of  ring  fighters 
as  could  be  picked  the  world  over.  The  hard 
types  that  made  up  the  majority  of  the  adven 
turers  who  had  come  there  in  search  of  fortune 
loved  the  sport,  were  generous  in  backing  it  and 
reckless  gamblers  on  the  results.  Such  conditions 
naturally  served  to  attract  fistic  stars  from  even 
the  remote  antipodes. 

While  undoubtedly  fond  of  both  of  us  in  his 
way  and  kindly  to  Cox  and  myself  when  sober, 
in  drink  Peach  was  a  raging  fiend  whom  Cox  was 
always  most  careful  to  avoid  and  of  whom  I  was 
equally  cautious,  for  at  that  time  I  could  not  have 
stood  up  against  him  for  a  moment. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that,  one  evening  about  our 
camp-fire,  we  made  a  solemn  agreement  that,  un 
der  no  provocation,  should  we  engage  in  quarrel 
among  ourselves,  much  less  should  either  of  us 
strike  another;  and  that  if,  unfortunately,  either 
should  break  this  engagement,  the  other  two 
should  join  in  restraining  him. 

Realising,  doubtless,  that  the  suggestion  of  this 
agreement,  which  came  from  Cox,  was  inspired 
chiefly  as  insurance  against  his  own  mad  out 
breaks,  Peach  concluded  the  discussion  by  insist 
ing  upon  exacting  a  promise  from  both  of  us  that, 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          61 

in  the  event  he  should  attempt  to  strike  either,  we 
would  promptly  shoot  him  down  —  little  fancying 
he  would  soon  be  earning  such  self-sought  punish 
ment. 

But,  oddly,  scarcely  a  fortnight  had  elapsed  be 
fore,  on  one  of  our  busiest  days,  when  we  were 
at  a  mountain  camp  engaged  in  marketing  a  newly 
broken  bunch  of  horses,  Peach  got  roaring  drunk 
and  demanded  of  me,  as  the  company  treasurer, 
thirty  dollars,  which  I  gave  him.  This  did  not 
last  him  long;  the  "  tin  horn  "  gamblers  soon  got 
it,  and  within  an  hour  he  was  back  in  camp  de 
manding  of  me  the  hard  earned  thousand  dollars 
which  represented  our  total  cash  savings. 

In  the  very  instant  I  refused  his  demand,  he 
sprang  forward  to  strike  me.  Powerless  other 
wise  to  resist  him,  mindful  of  our  agreement  and 
certain  he  would  beat  me  half  to  death  unless  I 
availed  myself  of  its  terms,  I  stood  my  ground, 
took  his  blow  and,  in  the  same  moment,  pulled 
trigger,  sending  a  ball  fairly  through  his  right 
lung. 

And  even  at  that  he  scarcely  got  the  worst  of  it. 
While  his  wound  had  him  short  of  wind  and  laid 
up  in  a  doctor's  care  for  two  months,  his  blow 
broke  my  nose  so  badly  that  for  weeks  the  wreck 
of  it  clinging  to  its  old  stand  was  hopelessly  re 
tired  from  every  sort  of  business,  and  for  years 
thereafter  it  caused  me,  from  time  to  time,  the 
most  acute  suffering. 

However,  blow  and  shot  served  a  good  pur 
pose;  for  once  Peach  was  up  and  about  again  we 


62  THE  VANGUARD 

were  closer  friends  than  before,  and  never  again 
to  the  end  of  our  association  did  a  hard  word  pass 
between  us. 

But  God  knows  we  were  never  long  out  of  trou 
ble,  of  one  sort  or  another,  and  always  serious. 
Try  my  best,  I  could  not  keep  my  mates  out  of 
it.  Cox  was  actually  worse  than  Peach,  for  he 
was  as  keen  for  battling  when  sober  as  Peach 
was  when  drunk.  His  deadliest  animosities,  how 
ever,  were  toward  Mexicans.  He  hated  the  race 
as  a  whole  in  the  same  whole-hearted  way  they 
hated  the  invading  tide  of  overland  American 
emigration.  Thus  it  was  not  long  after  Peach 
rejoined  us  that,  in  a  little  placita  embowered 
among  live  oaks,  a  Mexican  monte  dealer  who 
proved  to  be  quicker  at  pulling  the  bottom  card 
from  a  pack  than  at  drawing  his  pistol,  invited 
and  received  death  at  Cox's  hands. 

But  for  once  the  paisanos  were  too  thick  for 
him;  although  he  contrived  to  wound  two  more, 
before  he  went  down,  stunned  sufficiently  to  leave 
it  an  easy  matter  for  them  to  tie  him  and  pack  him 
off  to  the  frail  choza  that  served  as  the  local  jail. 

Luckily  for  him,  a  woman  of  the  village  was 
sufficiently  enamoured  of  Cox  to  bring  word  of 
his  troubles  to  our  camp.  Peach  was  alone  there 
at  the  moment  —  I  having  ridden  out  to  drive  in 
our  horses.  But  a  little  matter  of  odds  never 
bothered  Peach;  in  a  trice  he  was  mounted  and 
dashing  through  the  town  at  top  speed,  throwing 
lead  at  every  man  wjio  ventured  to  show  himself, 
deluging  the  place  with  such  a  torrent  of  blue  hail 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          63 

that  the  guards  about  the  jail  ran  for  cover  along 
with  the  rest.  That  left  it  an  easy  matter  for 
Peach  to  release  our  mate,  haul  him  up  behind 
his  own  saddle  and  fetch  him  safely  to  our  camp. 
Luckily,  I  got  in  with  our  horses  about  the  same 
time,  wHen  we  made  a  two  days'  shift  at  such  speed 
that  it  carried  us  beyond  their  hue  and  cry. 

This  change  brought  us  far  into  the  north,  close 
on  the  then  outer  line  of  settlements,  where  the 
Digger  Indians  were  fiercely  resisting  the  slowly 
encroaching  miners  and  ranchmen;  or  rather,  to 
be  more  accurately  truthful,  a  few  of  the  more 
desperate  were  so  engaged,  for  most  of  the  Dig 
gers  were  timid  folk. 

So  the  third  morning  of  our  drift  northward, 
we  were  not  particularly  surprised  when,  on 
reaching  Hat  Creek,  we  found  Callahan's  ranch 
sacked  and  burned,  his  horses  gone,  and  himself 
and  one  hired  man  stark,  abristle  with  Digger  ar 
rows. 

Of  course  we  joined  a  party  of  neighbours  that 
soon  gathered  and  took  the  trail,  but  they  proved 
such  a  faint-hearted  lot  we  soon  left  them  and 
struck  across  toward  Eureka,  dropping  into  and 
climbing  out  of  the  fathomless  gorges  of  Roar 
ing  Fork  and  Mad  River  —  both  of  which,  I  will 
stake  my  word,  honestly  deserve  their  names  — 
and  followed  down  Eel  River  until  we  came  to 
Hydesville,  where  (just  our  luck)  we  found 
Captain  Wright's  little  command  of  Indian  fight 
ers. 

After  looking  them  over  for  a  day,  we  decided 


64  THE  VANGUARD 

they  looked  like  they  really  meant  to  kill  some 
thing  besides  time,  so  we  threw  in  with  them. 

Nor  did  we  regret  it.  Real  men  they  proved. 
Wright  marched  us  up  into  the  Great  Bald  Hill 
country,  about  the  head  of  Eel  River,  where  for 
three  months  we  were  kept  out  stalking  the  con 
stantly  shifting  camps  of  Diggers,  sometimes 
stepping  into  an  ambush  and  playing  pin  cushion 
for  their  arrows  and  occasionally  having  our  in 
ning  and  potting  a  few. 

But  it  was  rarely  we  could  contrive  to  get  in 
striking  distance  of  them,  for  they  kept  scattered 
like  quail  and  stuck  to  rugged  sierras  no  horse 
could  travel  in.  We  sure  kept  them  on  the  run, 
though,  and  helped  to  leave  times  safe  and  com 
fortable  for  the  scattered  settlements  south  of  us. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  spring  of  1860, 
shortly  after  Wright's  command  had  been  dis 
banded  and  we  had  gone  to  Comptonville,  that  a 
blow  was  delivered  to  the  Diggers  that  perma 
nently  pacified  the  tribe. 

In  Humboldt  Bay,  not  far  from  Eureka,  lay 
Indian  Island,  which  then  held  one  of  their  largest 
villages,  among  whose  thickets  and  the  tule 
swamps  they  felt  safe.  But  one  night  a  party 
of  twenty-five  men,  a  mixed  lot  of  lumbermen, 
ranchers  and  miners,  slipped  over  to  the  island, 
surprised  their  camp  and  killed  two  hundred  and 
fifty  of  them,  among  the  dead  being  sixty-two  chil 
dren. 

It  was  nothing  less  than  a  dastardly  massacre, 
for  of  even  the  mature  men  of  the  village,  few 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          65 

were  active  hostiles.  As  for  the  children,  one 
man,  a  ranchman  named  Larrabe,  whose  ranch  had 
been  burned  by  the  Indians  and  all  of  his  live  stock 
stolen,  boasted  that  he  himself  had,  single-handed, 
killed  every  last  one  of  them;  and  with  the  cruel 
sentiment  then  prevailing  in  those  parts  no  voice 
was  raised  to  protest. 

About  Comptonville  we  gathered  and  broke  an 
other  herd  of  horses,  luckily  for  us  just  in  time 
to  sell  them  handsomely  to  stampeders  for  the  new 
placer  strike  on  New  River,  in  Trinity  County. 

And  then  on  into  the  new  camp  the  three  of  us 
trailed  for  our  share  of  the  pickings  —  a  chance 
to  back  Peach  for  a  prize  fight  or  to  pull  off  a 
horse  race,  failing  in  both  of  which,  we  could  al 
ways  rely  on  Cox's  skill  as  a  gambler  to  let  us  out 
of  a  camp  heavy  winners  —  when  we  could  con 
trive  to  keep  Peach  away  from  the  gaming  tables. 

But  there  we  found  everybody  so  crazy  staking 
and  prospecting  new  claims  that  the  trip  would 
have  been  a  barren  one  but  for  a  chance  meeting 
with  Henry  Bowen,  a  youngster  who  later  proved 
to  be  the  fastest  one-hundred-yard  runner  in  Cali 
fornia  and  became  known  as  "  The  Plough 
Boy." 

Amid  temptations  which  scarcely  one  man  in  a 
thousand  resisted,  it  was  always  a  matter  of  curi 
osity  to  me  that  neither  of  my  mates  fell  prey  to 
the  mad  lust  for  quick  riches  inspired  alike  in 
white,  red  and  yellow  men  by  rumour  of  a  new 
gold  strike.  But  they  possessed  a  quaint  and 
primitive  philosophy,  in  which  they  seemed  to  be 


66  THE  VANGUARD 

entirely  sincere,  and  which  certainly  served  to  hold 
them  immune. 

The  subject  never  came  up  among  us  as  an  ur 
gent  proposal  but  once,  early  in  my  association 
with  them.  Young  and  impressionable,  a  rush  of 
hundreds  out  of  Sacramento  to  a  new  strike  in 
the  north  possessed  and  nearly  swept  me  with  it; 
but  when  I  proposed  it  to  Peach  and  Cox,  the 
former  answered: 

"  Not  for  us,  son,  not  in  a  thousand  years ; 
feller  can't  get  but  just  so  drunk,  anyway,  and 
we  are  makin'  about  all  our  systems  will  hold  at 
this  horse  game.  Then,  besides,  it  don't  appear 
to  me  to  be  no  gentleman's  game  to  go  diggin' 
with  a  pick  and  shovel  —  hey,  Cox?" 

"  Go  '  gopherin,'  diggin'?"  queried  Cox; 
"  why,  d — n  me,  I  wouldn't  dig  my  own  grave, 
not  even  if  I  knew  I'd  be  needing  it  pronto,  and 
that  the  coyotes  would  be  chamberin'  me  if  I 
didn't!  "  All  of  which  seemed  to  leave  so  little 
room  for  argument  that  I  made  no  further  at 
tempt  to  pursue  it. 

However,  while  we  got  none  of  New  River's 
treasure,  the  Plough  Boy  proved  to  us  a  good  as 
set,  for  at  Sacramento  he  won  for  us  a  race  that 
tripled  our  capital.  Indeed,  I  believe  we  could 
have  dropped  down  and  broke  Frisco,  but  for 
the  fact  that  Bowen  got  frightened  of  the  wild 
carousal  our  winning  started  my  mates  on  and 
slipped  away  from  us. 

Throughout  the  year  preceding  the  outbreak 
of  the  Civil  War,  my  mates  grew  so  much  more 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          67 

desperate  and  reckless  that  I  became  convinced 
it  could  not  be  long  before  one  or  the  other  of 
them  would  involve  us  all  in  some  crime,  and  that, 
although  I  was  continually  straining  my  influence 
with  them  to  the  breaking  point  in  unceasing  ef 
forts  to  restrain  them,  I  must  inevitably  be 
branded  as  their  abettor. 

Leave  them  I  realised  I  must.  The  war  made 
the  opportunity.  All  of  us  were  keen  to  enlist, 
and  when  they  selected  the  First  Cavalry,  I  chose 
the  Fifth  Infantry. 

For  the  last  thirty  years  I  have  heard  little  and 
have  not  read  a  line  written  on  the  grand  work 
done  by  the  California  Column,  enlisted  in  July, 
1 86 1,  composed  largely  of  miners,  bull-whackers, 
mule-skinners,  bronco  riders  and  gamblers,  with 
a  sprinkling  of  lawyers,  doctors  and  merchants 
from  Frisco,  Sacramento  and  the  mountain 
camps. 

They  made  history,  did  those  men  who  formed 
the  little  column  that,  with  the  aid  of  a  mixed 
regiment  of  Coloradoans  and  native  New  Mexi 
cans  under  Kit  Carson,  took  and  held  the  vast 
territory  west  of  the  Rio  Grande  for  the  govern 
ment.  Then  for  four  years,  scattered  in  small 
detachments  over  the  enormous  area  between  the 
iPourgatoire  River  in  the  north  and  the  Delaware 
in  the  south,  they  were  engaged  in  perpetual  bat 
tling  with  the  Navajos,  Apaches,  and  Comanches, 
who  resumed  the  war  path  as  soon  as  the  regular 
troops  had  been  withdrawn. 

They  made  history  in  more  than  the  noble  rec- 


68  THE  VANGUARD 

ord  of  their  terrible  hardships  in  the  desert  and 
of  the  battles  they  fought,  for  without  them  the 
Confederacy  would  inevitably  have  gained  pos 
session  of  all  territory  west  of  Texas  and  Kansas, 
right  through  to  the  Pacific,  which,  had  it  hap 
pened,  must  surely  have  served  to  prolong  the 
war,  to  seriously  embarrass  the  administration  at 
Washington,  and  very  possibly  (who  knows?) 
to  have  changed  in  some  measure  the  terms  of  its 
ultimate  conclusion. 

In  those  days,  the  people  generally  of  the 
States  east  of  the  Mississippi  knew  less  of  Cali 
fornia,  took  less  interest  in  it,  concerned  them 
selves  less  about  it,  than  the  average  man  to-day 
knows  and  concerns  himself  about  the  Island  of 
Mindanao,  in  the  Philippines. 

True,  for  a  decade  it  had  been  pouring  a  flood 
of  millions  into  Eastern  coffers,  but  comparatively 
few  believed  the  fountains  of  California's  wealth 
to  be  as  relatively  inexhaustible  as  they  have  since 
proved.  Few  not  directly  interested  through 
family  ties  with  adventurers  to  the  coast,  or 
through  personal  interest  in  its  mines  or  trade, 
cared  seriously  whether  that  remote  region  was 
held  for  or  lost  to  the  Union. 

And  in  the  first  desperate  straits  into  which 
the  administration  found  itself  plunged  by  the  ac 
tive  conflict  along  the  Mason  and  Dixon  Line, 
California  was  so  nearly  overlooked,  if  not  actu 
ally  forgotten,  that,  but  for  the  patriotism  and 
initiative  within  the  State,  all  our  Pacific  coast 
territory,  and  probably  the  greater  part  of  the 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          69 

Rocky  Mountain  region,  must  have  fallen  under 
Confederate  control. 

Indeed,  without  early  organisation  to  meet  the 
emergency,  such  taking  of  the  coast  would  have 
been  easy  —  first,  because,  more  hard  pressed 
than  the  North  for  resources,  the  South  was  more 
keenly  alert  for  means  to  take  and  hold  possession 
of  California's  treasure. 

Second,  because  she  had  on  her  remote  west 
Texas  frontier  two  stout  and  able  partisans  in 
Colonel  John  R.  Baylor  and  his  brother,  Colonel 
George  Baylor  (both  of  whom  it  was  the  writer's 
privilege  to  know  intimately  thirty  years  ago), 
two  of  the  finest  types  of  the  old  Southwestern 
frontier  school,  battlers  almost  from  their  birth 
with  raiding  redskins,  masters  of  the  rude  but 
deadly  strategy  of  savage  warfare,  two  of  the 
gentlest  men  in  peace  and  the  most  relentless  in 
war,  who  were  alive  to  the  opportunity  and  eager 
to  serve  their  cause. 

Third,  because  California  held  heavy  leaven  of 
native  Southerners,  come  out  over  the  old  In- 
dianola  and  Butterworth  trails. 

Thus  it  was  as  early  as  July,  1861,  shortly  be 
fore  the  first  call  for  volunteers  in  California, 
that  Colonel  John  R.  Baylor,  having  marched  his 
little  column  of  native,  long-haired  Texans,  the 
elder  veterans  and  the  younger  sons  of  the  men 
of  The  Alamo  and  San  Jacinto,  from  Uvalde  up 
and  to  the  head  of  Devil's  River,  west  past  Hud 
son's  Wells  to  the  Pecos,  up  that  river  to  Horse- 
head  Crossing,  thence  west  to  Comanche  Springs, 


70  THE  VANGUARD 

to  Eagle  Springs,  over  to  the  Rio  Grande  and  up 
stream  to  the  then  tiny  Mexican  placita  of  Frank 
lin —  now  El  Paso  —  crossed  into  New  Mexican 
territory,  seized  the  town  of  Dona  Ana,  and  there 
established  his  headquarters. 

And  so  posted,  he  boldly  claimed  for  the  Con 
federacy  all  territory  between  the  Rio  Grande 
and  the  Pacific  coast  1 

But  while  Baylor  was  busy,  at  the  same  time 
Californians  were  neither  blind  to  their  danger 
nor  idle.  General  E.  V.  Sumner,  then  command 
ing  the  few  regulars  on  the  coast,  was  concen 
trating  his  outlying  garrisons  at  Los  Angeles,  as 
the  point  most  liable  to  develop  serious  disaffec 
tion. 

And  Thomas  Sprague,  a  merchant  resident  at 
La  Paz,  was  writing  Washington  as  follows: 
"  The  Secessionists  are  about  to  take  possession 
of  the  Peninsula  preparatory  to  acquiring  a  por 
tion  or  the  whole  of  Mexico,  seizing  the  Panama 
steamers  and  thereby  obtaining  enough  treasure 
to  carry  on  the  conquest  into  Alta  California.'* 

Meantime,  recruiting  had  been  going  on  in  the 
North,  so  that  in  the  early  fall  of  1861  Camp 
Latham  had  been  established  on  the  cienega  be 
tween  Santa  Monica  and  Los  Angeles,  and  there 
was  finished  the  recruiting  of  the  force  that  later 
became  known  as  the  California  Column. 

It  was  composed  of  the  First  and  Fifth  Vol 
unteer  Infantry,  the  First  Cavalry  and  a  light 
battery  of  four  brass  field  pieces  of  the  Third 
(Regular)  Artillery;  in  all  one  thousand  eight- 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          71 

hundred  men,  commanded  by  Colonel  James  H. 
Carleton,  previously  a  captain  of  the  Sixth  Regu 
lar  Infantry. 

For  a  time,  invasion  and  temporary  occupation 
of  the  two  northern  Mexican  states  was  seriously 
considered  at  Washington,  by  seizing  Guaymas 
and  thus  opening  a  possible  route  of  attack  of  the 
Confederacy  in  the  rear,  along  the  Texas  border. 

But,  obviously  lacking  available  forces  in  the 
far  West  adequate  to  follow  up  any  initial  ad 
vantages  that  might  be  gained,  this  wholly  raw 
piece  of  strategy  was  soon  abandoned,  and  Carle- 
ton  was  ordered  to  move  east  on  Yuma,  to  cross 
Arizona  and  New  Mexico  to  the  Rio  Grande,  and 
—  do  his  best. 

Shortly  before  the  starting  of  the  column,  Col 
onel  Baylor  wrote  his  department  commander  as 
follows  : 

California  is  on  the  eve  of  a  revolution.  There  are 
many  Southern  men  there  who  would  cheerfully  join  us 
if  they  could  get  to  us,  and  they  could  come  well  armed 
and  mounted.  I  would  ask  permission  to  get  all  such  men 
as  choose  to  join  us,  and  would  further  ask  that  some 
arrangement  for  the  purchase  of  horses  in  California  be 
made. 

I  could  now  buy  the  best  horses  there  for  $50,  and  many 
Southern  men  would  sell  them  for  Confederate  money. 
Another  thing  I  take  the  liberty  of  suggesting  is,  that  a 
force  be  placed  in  Western  Arizona  to  watch  the  landing 
of  United  States  troops  in  Guaymas,  that  they  may  not 
pass  through  Sonora  to  invade  us. 

A  party  of  Californians  have  just  arrived,  and  report 
that  there  are  no  troops  on  the  road  at  this  time,  but 


72  THE  VANGUARD 

that  the  United  States  government  was  trying  to  raise 
them  for  the  purpose  of  invasion,  and  I  am  reliably  in 
formed  that  the  government  of  Mexico  has  sent  orders  to 
the  governor  of  Sonora  to  allow  the  passage  of  United 
States  troops  through  that  State. 

Baylor's  suggestions  bore  fruit.  A  plan  was 
laid  to  rush  troops  through  New  Mexico  to  Cali 
fornia,  and  thence  to  swing  them  east  across  the 
Rockies  into  the  northwest,  and  General  H.  H. 
Sibley  led  the  force  assigned  to  the  task. 

In  February,  1862,  after  a  waterless  march  of 
ninety  miles  across  the  Jornado  del  Muerto 
(Journey  of  Death)  plateau,  his  fainting  and  al 
most  wholly  exhausted  column  crept  down 
through  the  huddle  of  black,  ragged  basalt  boul 
ders  that  surface  the  west  escarpment  of  the  pla 
teau,  where  it  breaks  down  to  the  Rio  Grande  at 
the  little  Mexican  placita  of  Valverde. 

He  arrived  to  find  that  stretch  of  the  river  held 
by  a  Unionist  force  under  General  Canby,  largely 
inferior  to  his  own  in  numbers,  but  fresh  —  and 
interposed  between  him  and  what  his  men  were 
dying  for,  water. 

Retreat  or  even  a  detour  impossible,  an  imme 
diate  action  was  inevitable,  and  was  fought,  virtu 
ally  to  the  defeat  of  Sibley,  notwithstanding 
Canby  was  finally  forced  to  retire  before  his  su 
perior  numbers,  but  only  after  Sibley's  losses  had 
been  so  heavy  that  his  force  was  badly  crippled. 

Shortly  thereafter  emergencies  along  the  Mis 
souri  compelled  the  transfer  of  nearly  all  of  the 
few  regular  troops  remaining  in  Colorado,  New 


NO  GENTLEMAN'S  GAME          73 

Mexico  and  Arizona  to  the  eastern  field,  leaving 
rare  old  Kit  Carson  alid  his  skeleton  regiment  of 
Coloradoans  and  New  Mexicans  —  nearly  all  of 
Mexican  blood,  who  still  hated  the  Tejanos  of 
their  day  as  bitterly  as  their  fathers  had  hated  the 
men  of  Goliad  and  San  Jacinto  —  as  the  only 
guard  of  the  scattered  local  settlements,  the  only 
bulwark  against  a  new  Confederate  invasion. 

And  no  more  was  this  poorly  defensible  situa 
tion  developed  than,  acting  under  the  impulse  of 
a  common  strategy  but  wholly  independent  of 
each  other,  Navajos,  Apaches  and  Comanches  be 
gan  a  relentless  war  on  all  the  southern  overland 
routes,  on  ranches  and  settlements,  that  lasted  a 
whole  year  after  the  conclusion  of  the  Civil 
War. 

And  it  was  just  at  this  juncture  that  Colonel 
Carleton's  California  Column  passed  through  Tuc 
son,  and  entered  upon  four  years  of  as  hard  cam 
paigning  and  trying  actions  as  any  troops  of  any 
country  ever  had  to  face. 

Some  day  I  hope  a  faithful  hand  will  write  the 
history  of  our  grand  old  Column,  beginning  it 
before  taps  has  been  sounded  over  the  last  of  us  — 
and  even  now  not  so  many  of  us  are  able  to  an 
swer  roll  call. 

At  the  general  history  of  the  Column's  work  I 
can  make  no  attempt ;  our  regiments,  and  even  the 
companies,  were  usually  so  widely  scattered  and 
operating  in  such  isolated  bodies  that  hardly  any 
member  of  the  column  could  do  more  than  tell 
his  personal  experiences  and  observations.  That 


74  THE  VANGUARD 

is  all  I  shall  undertake  —  a  simple  tale  of  happen 
ings  to  me  or  to  my  immediate  mates. 

Strangers  to  any  colour  of  restraint  of  them 
selves,  much  less  by  others,  neither  Peach  nor  Cox 
could  stand  army  discipline,  and  thus  were  in  per 
petual  hot  water  with  their  troop  commander. 

Nothing  prevented  their  being  cashiered,  o»r 
worse,  but  the  fact  that  for  any  desperate  emer 
gency  that  called  for  straight  shooting,  reckless 
courage  backed  by  cool  heads,  they  were  soon 
found  to  be  worth  any  ten  men  in  their  regiment. 

Thus  when,  early  in  his  service,  Peach  first  shot 
one  man  and  later  cut  another  —  both  affairs  over 
some  trivial  mess  dispute  —  he  was  lucky  enough 
to  escape  with  only  a  few  days  in  irons. 

In  each  instance  some  scout  or  vidette  work 
became  necessary  for  which  his  colonel  preferred 
trusting  him  to  any  other.  For,  no  matter  what 
his  violence  and  insubordination,  to  his  oath  and 
colours  Peach  stayed  true  to  the  end  of  his  enlist 
ment 


—  IV  — 

DESERT   TRAGEDY  AND    COMEDY 


^~|jr'""^HE  California  Column  was  largely  re- 
£|  cruited  in  Frisco  and  other  bay  towns, 
§f  but  there  was  none  of  the  up-river  or 

•JL  mountain  camps  that  failed  to  send 
men.  I  joined  Company  A,  Fifth  California  Vol 
unteer  Infantry,  at  the  rendezvous  at  Camp  Dow 
ney. 

The  fandango  and  gambling  halls  were  still  in 
full  blast,  but  under  better  organisation  than  for 
merly,  when  in  such  dens  no  miner's,  riverman's, 
or  cattleman's  life  was  safe  until,  by  one  alluring 
vice  or  another,  he  had  been  parted  from  his  gold 
dust. 

For  most,  to  be  sure,  the  bars,  the  gaming  tables 
and  the  bedizened  brown  belles  that  set  all  heads 
awhirl  in  the  sinuous,  seductive  mazes  of  the  fan 
dango,  sufficed. 

Whenever  a  "  tight-wad "  came  along  whom 
all  these  temptations  proved  incapable  of  separa 
ting  from  his  buckskin  sack,  the  first  morning 
traveller  over  the  chaparral-lined  trail  was  likely 
to  find  his  battered  body  where  it  had  been  thrown, 
after  having  been  stripped  by  the  thugs. 

But  times  were  changing;  some  law  and  a  little 

75 


76  THE  VANGUARD 

order  were  coming  in.  Bigger  and  broader  if 
not  better  men  owned  the  "  banks  "  and  ruled  the 
benches  where  bespangled  beauty  sat  enthroned  — 
men  who  realised  that  they  could  safely  rely  on 
the  springs  in  their  faro  boxes,  the  carefully  sand 
papered  finger-tips  of  their  dealers,  the  class  of 
their  whisky  and  the  smiles  of  the  sehoritas  to 
keep  business  booming:  that  thug  work  was  crude, 
and,  therefore,  unworthy  of  them. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  all  the  better  houses 
regularly  employed  guards,  locally  called  "  boun 
cers,"  to  deal  with  the  violent  and  to  protect  any 
one  no  longer  able  to  take  a  safe  observation  of 
his  surroundings  through  the  bottom  of  a  glass. 

At  that  time  the  leading  hall  of  chance  of  the 
town  boasted  two  men  of  the  bouncer  stamp  who 
"  had  never  lost  a  dollar  or  planted  a  straight 
stiff  " —  that  is,  who  had  permitted  no  robbery 
of  patrons  by  violence,  and  had  killed  none  but 
"  bad  "  men.  Their  names  were  Jack  and  Bill 
—  and  both  sought  to  hide  their  physical  identity, 
as  carefully  as  they  guarded  their  surnames,  by 
dressing  in  the  extreme  of  the  most  highly  ad 
mired  Mexican  bandit  fashion.  They  wore  som 
breros  loaded  with  gold  thread  embroidery  and 
"  rolls  " ;  tight-fitting  trousers  spangled  down  the 
outer  seam  with  silver  conchas;  embroidered  jack 
ets  short  as  a  bull  fighter's;  broad  belts  set  thick 
with  great  round  silver  conchas,  fastened  by  enor 
mously  broad  buckles  of  the  same  metal. 

Notwithstanding  it  was  well  known  that  each 
had  repeatedly  taken  sacks  of  gold  dust  from 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     77 

drunken  patrons  and  had  later  returned  them  in 
tact,  one  forenoon  a  miner  told  Bill  that  Jack 
had  taken  and  kept  his  sack,  and  that  it  was  up  to 
him  to  protect  their  good  name  by  making  Jack 
produce  it. 

Nor  did  Bill  need  any  urging;  the  charge  was  a 
stain  on  their  record.  So  he  lost  no  time  in  search 
ing  out  Jack  and  demanding  an  explanation. 

In  reply,  Jack  vowed  he  was  innocent;  insisted 
the  man  was  drunk  or  crazy  —  and  Bill  fully  cred 
ited  him,  and  so  told  him. 

But  all  day  long  it  rankled  in  Jack's  mind  that 
his  old  mate,  Bill,  had  even  ventured  to  question 
him,  until,  night  come,  he  could  restrain  himself  no- 
longer. 

Fun  and  frolic  were  fast  afoot  in  the  dance  hall, 
Bill  sitting  talking  to  a  girl,  when  in  front  of  them 
stepped  Jack  from  a  near-by  door,  covered  Bill 
with  his  pistol,  and  very  softly  queried: 

"  William,  have  you  the  faintest  idea  of  the 
identity  of  the  distinguished  individual  whose  hon 
esty  you  have  been  calling  in  question?  Say  to 
him  right  now  that  you  have  lied  about  him, 
or  he  will  start  you  on  the  road  to  the  Eternal 
City." 

Bill  knew  perfectly  well  he  was  in  for  a  death 
struggle,  but,  game  to  the  core,  he  answered: 

"  Why,  Jack,  I  always  thought  you  were  too 
brave  to  kill  a  man  without  giving  him  a  chance, 
even  if  you  are  a  thief,"  and  rose  as  he  spoke. 

He  was  scarcely  on  his  feet  before  Jack  shot, 
but  the  ball  struck  the  great  silver  buckle  on  Bill's 


78  THE  VANGUARD 

belt  and  did  no  more  harm  than  to  knock  him 
back  into  his  seat. 

Then  the  lead  began  to  fly  fast  and  furious,  the 
hall  was  quickly  emptied  of  all  but  the  two  leading 
performers,  and  a  free  stage  left  them. 

And  it  was  a  free  stage  they  surely  needed;  for 
scarcely  had  the  last  of  the  terror-blanched  huddle 
of  men  and  women  disappeared  through  doors 
and  windows  before  Jack  and  Bill,  their  pistols 
emptied  and  cast  aside,  were  crouched  and  cir 
cling  like  panthers,  each  playing  for  an  opening 
for  a  mortal  thrust. 

They  fought  in  approved  Mexican  fashion  — 
feet  well  gathered  under  them,  left  foot  slightly 
advanced,  great  begilt  sombreros  extended  in  the 
left  hand  and  flashing  up  and  down,  fairly  effec 
tive  shields  against  the  bowie  knives  that  played 
beneath  them. 

Neither  flinched.  In  and  out  they  darted, 
thrusting,  slitting,  but  weakening  fast  of  their 
wounds.  Time  and  again  the  silver  conchas  on 
their  belts  saved  them,  for  when  fighting  be 
neath  hat  shields  most  thrusts  that  count  land 
low. 

But  as  strength  waned  guard  weakened,  until, 
torn  by  bullets  and  slit  to  ribbons,  they  locked  tight 
in  a  savage  stabbing  contest  that  never  broke  until 
both  fell  lifeless. 

The  "  reputation  "  of  the  house  was  temporarily 
saved,  but  I  am  sure  it  was  many  a  day  before  it 
found  worthy  successors  of  its  dead  bouncers. 

It  was  early  in  1862  that  the  advance  of  the 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     79 

California  Column  began,  the  vanguard  consisting 
of  two  companies  of  infantry,  one  troop  of  cav 
alry  and  two  mountain  howitzers,  commanded  by 
Captain  W.  P.  Calloway.  Our  Company  A  was 
of  this  advance  party,  our  captain,  E.  B.  Frink; 
our  lieutenants,  William  Oman  and  Thomas  C. 
Chapman. 

The  tortures  of  that  desert  march  I  shall  never 
forget;  the  first  stretch  from  San  Gorgonio  to 
Yuma,  the  next  from  Yuma  to  Tucson.  It  was  a 
year  of  unusual  drought,  even  for  that  parched 
and  blistering  land. 

Water  holes  usually  dependable  at  that  season 
had  dried  up,  and,  as  usual  in  the  desert  through 
exceptionally  dry  spells,  winds  of  nearly  tornado 
violence  filled  the  air  with  clouds  of  sand  that 
blinded  our  eyes,  parched  our  throats,  and  threat 
ened  the  wreck  of  the  expedition  before  it  had 
gotten  well  started. 

Indeed,  our  situation  shifted  from  bad  to  worse, 
until  finally  one  morning  we  found  ourselves  con 
fronting  a  forty-mile  stretch  to  the  next  water 
with  bone  dry  canteens,  and  with  all  but  one  of 
our  water  tank  wagons  empty.  Lieutenant  Dick 
Hudson  was  our  quartermaster,  and  nothing  but 
his  good  judgment  and  steady  nerve  saved  the 
column  from  collapse  right  there. 

I  was  not  the  only  one  who  regarded  Hudson 
as  the  best  all-round  soldier  of  the  entire  com 
mand  that  marched  out  under  Colonel  Carleton, 
brave  to  wild  recklessness,  but  always  sparing  his 
men  instead  of  himself.  That  day  the  water 


8o  THE  VANGUARD 

ration  allowed  us  was  a  pint  to  the  man  every  ten 
miles. 

While  a  wise  allowance  to  see  us  through  — 
just  fancy  it,  when,  within  twenty  minutes  after 
you  had  received  your  ration,  the  burning  sand 
and  scorching  sun  had  one's  lips  and  mouth 
parched  and  shrivelling. 

But  alike  to  prayers  and  curses  Lieutenant  Hud 
son  remained  deaf,  until  finally  ranks  were  broken 
and  the  wagon  tank  rushed. 

At  first,  the  quartermaster  tried  to  persuade  us 
to  patience  and  self-control;  urged  that  if  per 
mitted  our  will  and  the  reserve  supply  became  ex 
hausted  we  would  be  certain  to  perish  before  the 
next  water  could  be  reached;  assured  the  men 
that  neither  he  himself  nor  the  wagon  escort 
should  touch  a  drop  until  the  journey's  end  — 
which,  in  truth,  they  did  not. 

As  well,  however,  try  to  check  a  rush  of  starv 
ing  wolves,  and  it  was  not  until  after  a  sharp  bit 
of  fighting  and  the  none  too  gentle  use  of  fixed 
bayonets  that  he  repelled  our  assault  of  the  water 
supply  and  restored  order. 

Night  come,  every  man-jack  of  us  realised  good 
old  Dick  had  saved  our  lives.  And  when  our  col 
onel  wanted  to  court-martial  the  entire  detach 
ment  for  insubordination,  and  Dick  so  eloquently 
pleaded  the  frightful  suffering  that  had  inspired 
it  and  won  our  immunity,  he  then  became  our  idol, 
and  so  remained  to  the  end  of  our  service. 

Little  use  had  Dick  for  courts  martial,  for  he 
was  a  rare  good  give-and-take  fighter  himself,  and 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     81 

believed  in  handing  out  personally  any  and  all 
punishments  needed. 

One  day  on  march,  I  remember,  one  of  the 
"  hard  cases  "  in  the  company  was  grossly  insolent 
to  him.  Another  officer  would  have  put  the  man 
under  arrest  and  preferred  charges. 

But  not  so  Dick.  Instead,  he  jerked  off  his 
blouse,  threw  it  on  the  ground,  and  smilingly  re 
marked:  "There  on  the  ground  is  the  officer 
and  here's  the  man;  square  off,  you  blackguard, 
and  I'll  beat  you  to  a  pulp,"  and  then  promptly 
proceeded  to  make  his  proposition  good. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  throughout  my  four  years, 
eight  months  and  twenty-one  days'  service,  I  had 
only  two  encounters  with  any  of  my  California 
comrades,  and  of  these  I  want  to  exonerate  my 
self. 

Before  we  left  Frisco,  Sam  Stuart,  the  toughest 
rough-and-tumble  fighter  in  the  command,  half 
crazed  with  drink,  attacked  me  entirely  without 
cause. 

Still  a  youngster,  I  was  unable  to  stand  him  off, 
and  got  a  severe  beating.  The  officers  wanted  me 
to  prefer  charges  and  to  appear  against  him.  This, 
however,  I  respectfully  declined  to  do;  and  when 
asked  for  my  reason  for  not  wanting  him  punished 
told  them  that,  being  enlisted  for  three  years,  I 
had  confidence  I  would  be  able  to  show  Mr.  Stuart 
before  my  service  was  finished  that  he  had  made 
a  serious  mistake. 

And  when  from  time  to  time  I  would  say  to 
him,  in  a  bantering  way,  "  Don't  forget  I'm  going 


82  THE  VANGUARD 

to  grow  and  fill  out  just  for  your  sake,  Sammy," 
it  got  to  be  the  jest  of  the  company,  and  the  men 
were  always  guying  me  and  wanting  to  know  how 
long  I  figured  it  would  take  me  to  "  fill  out.'* 

It  was  sometime  in  the  summer  of  1864  that 
my  chance  came.  We  were  camped  down  on  the 
Gila,  sitting  about  our  mess  fire,  eating  bacon  and 
hard  tack,  when  C.  D.  Rush  accidentally  knocked 
Stuart's  overcoat  off  a  log  and  into  the  fire. 

Instantly  Stuart  knocked  Rush  down,  but  be 
fore  he  could  rise  I  jumped  between  them  and 
sang  out,  "  Look  out,  Sammy,  for  I  have  filled 
out!" 

Then  at  it  we  went,  hammer  and  tongs,  and  at 
it  we  stayed  until  Sammy  had  reached  a  condition 
to  take,  if  not  to  enjoy,  a  short  journey  to  the  hos 
pital  tent  on  a  stretcher. 

In  the  first  action  of  the  column  my  regiment 
did  not  participate,  but  since  it  turned  out  to  be 
bloodless  we  did  not  mind  much.  The  First  Cav 
alry  and  First  Infantry  overtook,  surrounded  and 
captured  Dan  Showalter,  who  was  leading  seven 
teen  other  Southern  sympathisers  east  to  meet  the 
Confederate  advance.  We  carried  the  lot  into 
Yuma,  where  they  were  held  prisoners  until  finally 
exchanged. 

As  we  neared  the  Pima  villages,  news  reached 
us  that  Captain  Hunter  was  leading  a  band  of 
Tejanos  on  an  attempted  invasion  of  California, 
and  shortly  thereafter  we  encountered  evidence  of 
their  handiwork  —  the  still  smoking  ruins  of  gov 
ernment  forage  stations.  Evidently,  they  had 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     83 

learned  of  our  advance  and  were  retiring  east 
ward. 

That  they  were  occupying  Picacho  Pass  our  In 
dian  scouts  reported,  but  in  what  numbers  we  were 
unable  to  learn.  Our  colonel  sent  out  our  cavalry 
to  circle  and  strike  them.  They  completely  sur 
prised  Hunter's  force,  and  routed  it. 

And  there  the  column  lost  its  two  first  men, 
Lieutenant  James  Barrett  and  two  troopers,  whose 
bodies  still  lie  within  a  few  feet  of  the  Southern 
Pacific  Railway,  in  Picacho  Pass,  unless  they  have 
lately  been  removed. 

Parched  and  blistered  by  day  and  chilled  stiff 
of  nights  around  our  meagre  desert  camp  fires,  we 
pushed  east  until,  in  small  detachments,  the  last 
of  the  column  had  reached  Tucson,  tattered, 
emaciated,  limping,  where  our  officers  found  it 
as  hard  to  supply  us  with  food  and  forage  as  it 
had  been  to  furnish  us  water  throughout  our  desert 
march. 

The  Pima  Indians  had  little  to  sell,  and  we  had 
less  of  goods  to  tempt  them  to  barter — in  fact 
nothing  but  manta,  cotton  drilling,  which  was 
traded  at  the  rate  of  one  yard  of  manta  for  four 
quarts  of  pinole,  a  most  nutritious  native  food 
preparation  of  corn  and  sugar;  one  yard  for  seven 
quarts  of  wheat;  one  yard  for  fifty  pounds  of  hay 
or  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  green  fodder. 

While  we  had  no  more  encounters  with  the 
Confederates  until  after  we  reached  the  Rio 
Grande,  every  step  of  our  progress  from  Tucson 
was  contested  by  the  Navajos  and  Apaches  who, 


84  THE  VANGUARD 

finding  the  whites  at  war  among  themselves,  were 
quick  to  avail  themselves  of  such  a  convenient  op 
portunity  to  square  some  old  scores  of  their  own. 

The  early  overland  travel  west  from  Indianola 
had  needlessly  shot  them  up  a  lot,  stolen  their 
ponies  and  even  some  of  their  women.  Every 
time  our  trail  entered  a  mountain  pass,  neared  a 
possible  place  of  ambush  or  approached  a  water 
hole,  we  were  certain  of  a  surprise  and  the  wound 
ing  or  killing  of  some  of  our  force. 

And  talk  of  ambushes,  the  Apaches  were  the 
wise  boys  at  that  trade  —  past  masters  the  devil 
himself  could  not  equal.  While  they  never  got 
us  badly,  a  quartermaster's  train  of  the  forces  fol 
lowing  us  they  simply  swallowed  up. 

Some  way,  the  train  and  its  escort  of  a  half 
troop  of  cavalry  got  separated  from  the  main 
command.  At  the  time  they  were  crossing  a  wide 
reach  bare  of  shelter  of  any  sort  other  than  here 
and  there  a  scattered  growth  of  sotol,  a  thin- 
stemmed  shrub  no  white  man  could  hide  a  dog  be 
hind.  But  it  sufficed  for  the  Apaches. 

Spying  the  train  hours  in  advance  of  its  entry 
into  this  barren,  bushless  region,  they  placed  them 
selves  in  ambush  near  to  and  along  either  side  of 
the  trail,  by  burying  their  bodies  in  the  sands  and 
concealing  their  faces,  and  yet  getting  air  to 
breathe,  by  hollowing  out  the  bulbous  roots  of  the 
sotol! 

Thus  the  train  had  passed  well  within  this 
cruelly  cunning  net  before  the  Indians  sprang 
yelling  from  the  sand,  risen  demon-wise  by  pure 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     85 

magic  it  must  have  seemed  to  their  doomed  vic 
tims,  and  in  ten  minutes  had  speared  every  last 
man  of  both  the  escort  and  the  drivers. 

We  had  sharp  actions  at  Apache  Teju,  Dragoon 
Springs  and  Apache  Pass,  and  it  was  at  the  latter 
place  that  we  handed  them  a  pretty  neat  sur 
prise. 

They  were  holding  the  pass  in  strong  force,  and 
neither  cavalry  nor  infantry  made  much  progress 
dislodging  them.  Meantime  their  sharpshooters 
were  scoring  off  us,  wounding  Lieutenant  Young 
and  one  of  our  surgeons  and  killing  three  men. 

One  group  about  800  yards  above  us  was  es 
pecially  troublesome,  as  they  had  several  rifles  of 
as  long  range  as  our  own.  The  most  troublesome 
of  these  occupied  a  lofty  crotch  of  an  oak-tree, 
whence  a  puff  of  smoke  was  seen  to  sift  out 
through  its  foliage  every  time  one  of  our  men 
was  hit. 

The  gunners  of  the  howitzer  had  been  trying  to 
get  his  range,  but  failed.  Just  then  the  hospital 
steward,  an  old  discharged  artilleryman  who  had 
grown  grey  in  the  service  with  General  Scott,  came 
along,  pushed  the  gunners  from  the  howitzer,  ele 
vated  it  to  his  satisfaction,  took  his  sight,  and 
pulled  the  lanyard.  I  certainly  never  saw  or 
heard  of  such  a  shot.  A  sharpshooter  with  a  rifle 
could  not  have  beaten  it.  The  shell  struck  the 
tree  and  exploded  apparently  in  its  centre,  for 
nothing  was  left  of  it  but  a  slivered  stump. 

It  was  on  this  march  that  Jack  Mathews  con 
verted  his  name  from  a  reproach  to  an  inspiration. 


86  THE  VANGUARD 

Shortly  earlier,  Jack  had  deserted,  fled  toward  the 
Mexican  border,  but  had  been  captured. 

While  awaiting  trial  he  was  held  prisoner,  hob 
bled  with  a  ball  and  chain.  His  folly  was  due  to 
no  worse  sentiment  than  resentment  of  discipline, 
for  he  was  a  whole-hearted  Union  man  and  feared 
neither  man  nor  devil,  but  to  take  orders  and 
endure  discipline  rankled  in  his  untamed  heart  till 
it  drove  him  to  try  a  getaway. 

One  morning  Jack  begged  for  and  got  permis 
sion  to  go  into  the  hills  with  the  wood  wagons, 
Sergeant  Brady,  commanding  the  small  escort,  be 
ing  instructed  to  take  good  care  that  he  did  not 
escape. 

Keen  for  any  occupation,  the  sergeant  set  him 
cooking.  The  very  next  morning  at  dawn,  while 
Jack  was  pottering  about  the  fire,  carrying  over 
his  arm  his  ball  and  chain,  a  stalking  party  of 
Apaches  fired  into  the  camp,  killing  two  soldiers 
and  breaking  Brady's  leg. 

Carrying  Brady  inside  a  small  trinchera,  built 
of  stones,  which  they  had  thrown  up  the  night  be 
fore  for  just  such  an  emergency,  Jack  seized  two 
guns;  and  then  he  and  Brady  proceeded  to  give 
the  Apaches  such  a  hot  stand-off  that,  after  three 
or  four  hours'  ineffectual  effort  to  dislodge  them, 
they  retired. 

Meantime,  however,  their  two  remaining  com 
rades  had  also  been  killed,  leaving  Jack  and  his 
sergeant  the  only  living  tenants  of  the  bloody  trin- 
chera. 

Brady  was  bleeding  badly.     Prompt  surgical 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     87 

aid  was  needed  to  save  his  leg,  if  not  his  life. 
While  the  task  of  getting  his  comrade  back  to 
the  command  seemed  an  utterly  hopeless  under 
taking,  Jack  did  not  hesitate  to  tackle  it.  Tying 
the  ball  and  chain  about  his  waist,  he  took  Brady 
on  his  back  and  himself  carrying  their  two  guns, 
staggered  away  toward  the  command. 

The  retirement  of  the  Indians  had  been  only  a 
ruse.  No  sooner  had  Jack  left  the  trinchera  far 
enough  to  permit  the  manoeuvre,  than  the  enemy 
cut  in  behind  and  renewed  the  attack,  and  it  was 
only  by  the  superior  range  of  their  rifles  that  the 
two  men  were  able  to  hold  off  the  Indians  and  to 
slowly  advance  until,  finally,  their  fire  was  heard 
in  the  camp  and  a  squad  of  cavalry  rode  out  to 
their  rescue. 

Our  colonel  reported  the  affair  to  Washington, 
with  the  result  that  Jack's  offence  was  pardoned 
and  he  was  restored  to  duty,  with  full  pay. 

In  the  autumn  of  1862  we  went  into  canton 
ment  at  La  Mesilla,  now  New  Mexico,  about  three 
thousand  of  us,  where  for  a  time  we  lay  quietly, 
getting  the  rest  the  badly  worn  command  sadly 
needed.  Life  there  was  without  notable  incident 
save  the  occasional  wild  outbreaks  of  one  or  an 
other  of  the  desperate  men  of  that  lawless  fron 
tier  or  of  our  own  command.  There  were  some 
real,  sure-enough  fighters  around  in  those  days, 
and  they  could  never  get  their  own  consent  to  stay 
long  idle. 

One  day  a  big,  powerful  Mexican  was  arrested 
for  robbing  a  soldier.  A  few  hours  later  he  es- 


88  THE  VANGUARD 

caped,  but  got  a  bullet  in  his  leg  from  one  of  his 
guards. 

He  succeeded  in  reaching  Mesilla,  but  there  he 
was  retaken  by  United  States  Marshal  Lemmons, 
who  started  with  him  for  our  camp.  On  the  road 
two  men  of  my  company  met  the  marshal,  and  he 
turned  the  prisoner  over  to  them. 

Passing  a  little  store  on  their  way  to  camp,  the 
prisoner  asked  permission  to  enter  and  buy  some 
food.  His  guard  assenting,  they  entered  the 
store,  one  guard  in  the  lead,  the  other  following 
the  prisoner. 

Scarcely  had  they  passed  the  threshold  before 
the  prisoner  seized  a  hatchet  that  lay  on  a  barrel 
and  brained  the  guard  in  front  of  him.  Almost 
at  the  same  instant,  the  rear  guard,  Dewey,  shot 
the  Mexican,  but  the  prisoner  leaped  the  counter, 
grabbed  a  loaded  pistol,  whirled  on  Dewey,  and 
killed  him. 

But  before  Dewey  went  down  he  had  put  three 
more  shots  into  his  man's  breast. 

Hearing  the  shooting,  the  United  States  mar 
shal  came  on  a  run,  and  just  as  the  Mexican 
dashed  out  of  the  store,  emptied  both  barrels  of 
a  shot-gun  into  him. 

It  was  a  marvellous  case  of  frenzied  hardihood, 
but,  literally  weighted  down  with  lead  as  the  Mex 
ican  was,  rent  and  torn  by  the  shots  he  had  re 
ceived  until  his  carcass  was  little  better  than  a 
sieve,  on  down  the  street  he  ran,  apparently  as 
strong  as  ever. 

And  believe  it  though  the  reader  well  may  not, 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     89 

it  is  the  simple  truth  that  presently  he  was  met 
by  a  man  of  my  company  named  Spencer,  and 
shot  six  times  more,  with  a  small  Colt's  navy. 
Then  they  clinched,  Spencer  seizing  the  hand  that 
still  held  the  deadly  hatchet. 

Spencer  himself  was  a  powerful  man,  but  he 
was  helpless  in  the  hands  of  the  mad  Mexican, 
who  lifted  him  bodily  aloft,  hurled  him  to  the 
ground  and  was  in  the  act  of  finishing  him  with 
his  hatchet  when  a  gambler  ran  up  and  shot  him 
in  the  head  with  a  small  derringer.  This  shot 
saved  Spencer's  life,  stunned  the  Mexican  suffi 
ciently  to  give  him  time  to  regain  his  feet,  possess 
himself  of  the  hatchet  and  to  bury  it  in  the  head 
of  his  enemy. 

And  at  the  end  of  the  hour  more  that  this  mar 
vellously  tenacious  outlaw  lived,  his  father  came 
into  camp  and  told  us  he  could  now  breathe  freely 
for  the  first  time  in  years,  as  he  had  long  feared 
meeting  death  at  his  son's  hands. 

It  was  there  at  Mesilla  that  my  old  chum  Peach 
came  near  getting  his  light  put  out  by  a  military 
sentence.  He  and  Cox  had  joined  the  cavalry, 
as  will  be  remembered,  and  were  the  terror  of 
their  troop. 

Nothing  but  their  supreme  value  as  scouts  left 
them  out  of  the  guard  tent  and  in  active  service. 
Some  wild  devilment  they  were  always  pulling 
off,  but  their  worth  on  detached  service  usually 
gained  them  leniency  from  our  colonel. 

But  one  day  Peach  got  into  trouble  dangerously 
deep  again  —  got  into  a  dispute  in  a  neighbouring 


9o  THE  VANGUARD 

village  of  Pueblo  Indians,  and  was  struck  oa  the 
head  and  knocked  into  the  live  coals  of  a  smoul 
dering  mesquite  fire. 

Before  rising  he  shot  and  killed  the  Indian  who 
had  struck  him,  and  then,  as  he  was  scrambling 
off  a  bed  he  found  altogether  too  hot  for  longer 
occupancy,  a  squaw  sprang  at  him  with  a  raised 
club,  and  a  buck  with  a  machete,  but  this  pair,  too, 
he  dropped  dead  before  they  got  in  striking  reach 
of  him. 

When,  at  last,  Peach  got  out  of  the  jacal  where 
the  fight  occurred,  his  blouse  was  on  fire,  and  his 
back  and  shoulders  were  badly  blistered.  But, 
hastening  back  to  his  quarters,  he  had  succeeded 
in  shifting  to  a  fresh  uniform  before  the  roll  was 
beaten  that  called  us  all  to  fall  in  for  inspection  by 
the  Indians,  who  had  followed  him  into  camp  and 
demanded  justice  of  our  colonel. 

Peach  was  promptly  identified,  but  denied  hav 
ing  had  any  part  in  the  affair,  enduring  the  tor 
tures  of  his  burns  without  a  grimace  or  wince  of 
pain;  and  it  was  only  when  an  old  Indian  de 
manded  that  his  blouse  be  stripped  off  and  his 
blistered  back  exposed  that  further  denial  became 
useless  and  he  was  ordered  into  irons. 

But  when,  a  few  days  later,  he  was  brought  to 
trial  before  a  court-martial  and  was  asked  by  the 
judge-advocate  if  he  wanted  a  lawyer,  Peach 
coolly  replied  that  he  never  had  any  use  for  law 
yers  and  was  too  old  to  care  to  begin  mixing  up 
with  them. 

"  But,"  the  judge-advocate  insisted,  "  your  case 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     91 

is  very  serious,  and  you  are  certain  to  receive  a 
heavy  sentence  if  convicted." 

"That's  all  right,  Judge,"  Peach  answered; 
"  much  obliged  for  the  information,  but  still  I 
say  I  don't  want  no  jack-leg  lawyer;  I  just  want 
to  ask  this  court  one  question,  if  you  will  give  me 
your  word  that  it  will  be  answered  truthfully." 

Surprised,  the  court  assented,  told  him  to  put 
his  question  and  it  should  have  a  plain,  straight 
answer. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Peach,  "  just  please  tell  me 
whatever  would  you  do  if  knocked  into  a  d — d 
hot  mesquite  fire  and  had  three  crazy  Indians 
springing  at  you  with  machetes  and  clubs? 
Would  you  lie  there  to  be  hacked  up  and  roasted, 
or  would  you  try  to  fight  your  way  out?  " 

There  was  just  nothing  to  say  to  that  appeal,  and 
old  Peach  was  promptly  exonerated  as  soon  as 
enough  evidence  had  been  taken  to  measurably 
establish  the  record  of  a  formal  trial. 

But  while,  as  will  be  evident  from  these  yarns, 
our  life  in  those  years  was  a  seldom-broken  chain 
of  tragedies  of  one  sort  or  another,  comedy,  rude 
to  be  sure,  but  none  the  less  side-splitting,  was  now 
and  then  developing  to  brighten  the  monotony  of 
service  in  camp. 

One  night  Peach,  Cox  and  I  got  a  leave  and 
went  into  Mesilla  for  a  little  fun  —  and  inciden 
tally  to  replenish  our  badly  depleted  exchequer, 
for,  what  with  scouting  and  marching,  Cox  had 
had  little  time  to  ply  his  skill  at  gambling. 

I  thought  more  than  twice  before  consenting  to 


92  THE  VANGUARD 

go  with  them,  but  times  had  been  pretty  dull  with 
me,  and  I  found  myself  unable  to  resist  a  chance 
for  another  whirl  with  my  old  mates. 

We  were  not  long  finding  a  game,  in  Mesilla's 
leading  saloon.  Pete  Kennedy,  the  saloon  keeper, 
sat  in  with  us  along  with  the  sheriff,  and  a  gam 
bler  known  as  "  The  Little  Giant." 

It  was  a  Saturday,  and  our  game  dragged  on 
throughout  the  night,  with  varying  luck  on  our 
side  —  always  varying  luck,  for  while  there  was 
never  any  variation  in  Cox's  ability  to  collar  the 
bigger  pots,  sometimes  Peach  and  I  lost  more  than 
at  others. 

At  length  the  grey  of  dawn  began  to  pale  the 
candles,  and  the  mellow  bells  of  the  old  mission 
church  across  the  plaza  began  calling  the  faithful 
to  five-o'clock  mass,  a  diversion  that  for  a  time 
gave  thought  and  talk  about  the  table  a  religious 
bent. 

Pete  Kennedy  remarked  that  when  he  was  a 
boy  and  attending  Sunday  school  "  back  in  the 
States,"  he  could  "  recite  every  verse  of  the  New 
Testament,  and  a  lot  of  'em  backward." 

The  sheriff  allowed  that  he  had  been  brought  up 
to  measure  things  up  by  the  Golden  Rule,  but  ad 
mitted  that  west  of  the  Missouri  there  appeared 
to  be  a  lot  of  situations  the  rule  did  not  seem  to 
fit  any  too  well. 

Cox  observed  that  he  did  not  know  much  of  the 
Bible,  personally,  but  had  heard  a  heap  of  folks 
speak  mighty  well  of  it. 

Peach  said  he  had  heard  the  Bible  tells  about 


DESERT  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY     93 

a  feller  walking  on  water,  but  that,  himself,  he 
had  never  struck  any  water  over  his  head  in  depth 
he  had  not  had  to  swim  in. 

The  Little  Giant  conceded  that  he  had  been  edu 
cated  for  the  ministry  and  had  preached  for  a 
time,  but  had  cut  out  of  the  religious  game  so  long 
ago  that  he  wouldn't  undertake  to  referee  any  dis 
putes  about  it. 

Presently,  the  sheriff  said,  "  Pete  Kennedy,  I 
should  like  to  remark  that  in  my  opinion,  there 
is  no  gentleman  at  the  table  who  can  recite  the 
Lord's  Prayer  correctly,  and  since  you  used  to 
know  so  much  about  the  New  Testament,  I'm 
having  you  particularly  in  mind." 

"  Don't  want  to  bet  none,  do  you?  "  asked  Pete. 

"  Sure,"  replied  the  sheriff:  "  name  it  yourself." 

"  Here's  a  hundred  that  says  I  can  recite  her 
the  first  rattle  out  of  the  box,"  promptly  called 
Pete,  and  planked  on  the  table  five  gold  twenties. 

The  sheriff  promptly  covered  the  money  and  told 
Pete  to  proceed. 

For  a  moment  Pete  seemed  puzzled,  but  then 
he  started  bravely,  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep; 
if  I  should  die  before  I  wake,  I  pray  — " 

When  "  Hold  on,  Pete,"  the  sheriff  interrupted; 
"  I  apologise;  the  money's  yours." 


—  V  — 

MANGUS    COLORADO 

IT  was  in  January,  1863,  that  General  West 
led  our  column  out  of  Mesilla  on  an  expedi 
tion  against  the  famous  old  Apache  war 
chief,  Mangus  Colorado. 

For  years  he  had  been  a  terror  of  the  southern 
overland  trails  and  settlements  —  the  ferocious  ex 
pression  of  the  hatred  he  had  inherited  direct 
from  old  Cochise  himself,  who  had  never  taken 
the  war-path  against  the  whites  until  a  reckless 
party  of  overland  immigrants,  travelling  the  In- 
dianola-Yuma  trail,  wantonly  shot  his  son. 

And  even  then  Cochise  did  not  go  to  war  until 
his  request  that  his  son's  murderers  be  arrested 
and  punished  was  refused  by  the  commanding  of 
ficer  of  the  nearest  government  troops,  a  refusal 
that  set  the  old  chief  ravening  like  a  wolf  from 
end  to  end  of  the  territory  lying  between  the  Rio 
Grande  and  the  Colorado  and  first  and  last  caused 
the  loss  of  several  thousand  lives. 

For  some  time  before  the  outbreak  of  the  war 
of  secession,  that  district  had  been  so  heavily  gar 
risoned  by  regular  troops  that  Mangus's  activities 
had  been  largely  circumscribed,  but  directly  the 
war  emptied  the  frontier  posts  of  their  garrisons, 
he  was  quick  to  resume  his  old  bloody  tricks. 

94 


MANGUS  COLORADO  95 

And  now  this  was  the  first  opportunity  a  suffi 
ciently  large  body  of  troops  had  been  again  as 
sembled  west  of  the  Rio  Grande  to  justify  active 
operations  against  him. 

We  marched  west  of  Mesilla  through  Ojo 
Caliente,  later  known  as  Hudson's  Springs  (for 
it  was  there  my  old  comrade,  Colonel  Dick  Hud 
son,  later  settled  and  lived  to  the  end  of  his  days) 
and  ultimately  went  into  camp  at  Apache  Teju. 
Only  one  cabin  remained  standing  at  the  old  stage 
station ;  the  Indians  had  burned  all  the  others,  and 
why  it  was  spared  by  them  was  a  mystery  to  us. 

There  at  Apache  Teju  we  found  encamped  Mr. 
Walker,  leading  a  strong  party  of  prospectors, 
who  wisely  regarded  it  as  unsafe  to  proceed 
farther  until  Mangus  Colorado  and  his  band  had 
been  accounted  for  by  the  troops. 

Moved,  doubtless,  by  realisation  of  the  enor 
mous  difficulties  always  experienced  by  the  troops 
whenever  they  tried  to  strike  a  decisive  blow  on  a 
large  band  of  Indians,  on  account  of  the  far  su 
perior  mobility  of  the  forces  of  the  red  chiefs, 
General  West  determined  to  first  try  strategy. 

That  the  highly  questionable  finish  of  the  affair 
was  deliberately  planned  by  our  general  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  believe.  Rather,  I  have  pre 
ferred  to  think,  once  he  got  the  old  chief  in  his 
power  the  general  became  obsessed  with  the  idea 
that  no  treaty  could  long  bind  him  to  peace,  and 
that  the  safety  of  the  frontier  justified  any  meas 
ure  effective  to  procure  it. 

All  I  can  do  is  to  tell  the  story  of  Mangus's  tak- 


96  THE  VANGUARD 

ing  and  death  precisely  as  I  know  it  happened. 
And,  anyway,  since  the  government  did  not  call  the 
general  to  account,  it  is  not  up  to  me  to  criticise 
him. 

The  facts  are  that  General  Wjest  ordered  Cap 
tain  Sheldon  to  advance  with  a  party  of  twenty 
troopers,  instructed  to  seek  to  obtain  a  parley  with 
Mangus  and  to  do  his  utmost  to  persuade  him 
to  come  into  our  camp  to  make  a  treaty. 

Mangus  and  his  main  band,  several  thousand 
of  them,  were  then  known  to  be  camped  in  the 
mountains  back  of  Pinos  Altos,  then  a  young  but 
active  placer  mining  camp.  Most  of  the  actual 
gold  washers  were  Mexicans;  the  few  white  men 
in  the  camp  were  almost  exclusively  traders. 

Captain  Sheldon's  detachment  was  guided  by 
Juan  Arollo,  who  served  with  our  command 
throughout  the  war  as  a  scout.  And  I  want  to 
say  right  here  that  he  was  the  finest  Indian  trailer, 
guide  and  scout  in  the  entire  Southwest.  Indeed, 
he  was  so  generally  ranked  by  the  foremost  regu 
lar  officers  of  that  day. 

Colonel  Kit  Carson  used  to  call  Arollo  the 
bravest  man  he  had  ever  met,  and  I  agree  with 
him.  Colonel  Kit  loved  to  tell  of  actions  with  the 
Indians  before  the  war  in  which  he  had  had 
Arollo  with  him.  He  related  that  many  a  time 
he  had  seen  him  leave  his  force  and,  single  handed, 
attack  a  charging  war  party,  always  coming  back 
with  some  trophy  of  his  recklessness  and  usually 
with  more  or  less  arrows  decorating  his  body, 


MANGUS  COLORADO  97 

along  with  a  choice  assortment  of  slashes  and  bul 
let  holes. 

To  try  to  enumerate  the  wounds  this  man  car 
ried  or  to  tell  in  detail  the  actions  he  had  been  in, 
would  be  to  rank  one  as  the  maddest  romancer, 
but  the  truth  is  that  Arollo's  daily  life  far  sur 
passed  the  conceptions  in  desperate  adventure  of 
the  wildest  romancer.  Ask  any  old-timer  of  the 
days  of  1861-5;  you  can  depend  he  will  bear  me 
out. 

Arollo  led  Captain  Sheldon  northwest  through 
the  mountains,  making  a  detour  around  Pinos 
Altos  and  avoiding  all  roads  and  trails  until,  al 
ways  working  well  ahead  of  the  command,  he 
sighted  Mangus's  scouts  lying  along  the  crests  of 
outer  spurs  of  the  range  and  spying  out  the  coun 
try  below,  precisely  like  lions  lurk  along  the  brink 
of  naked  desert  butte  crests,  marking  down  their 
victims  and  the  easiest  route  to  stalk  them. 

With  a  redskin  in  sight,  or  any  other  situation 
which  promised  a  chance  of  a  fight,  Arollo  was 
always  like  a  raging,  tugging  hound  in  leash.  It 
is  therefore  easy  to  realise  how  it  must  have  galled 
him  to  carry  out  orders  and  signal  Mangus's  scouts 
peace  and  parley  signs,  instead  of  charging  straight 
into  them. 

But  Arollo  never  disobeyed  orders  any  more 
than  he  shirked  a  deadly  hazardous  duty,  and  so 
he  rode  straight  forward,  up  into  the  outpost  of 
the  Apache  stronghold,  with  hand  raised,  palm 
forward,  in  the  usual  sign  of  peace.  And  doubt- 


98  THE  VANGUARD 

less  it  was  nothing  but  the  sheer  astonishment  of 
the  Indians  that  saved  his  life. 

No  Indian  harms  the  demented,  holding  him 
as  touched  by  the  Great  Spirit  and  under  his  pro 
tection,  and  certainly  they  must  have  thought  that 
none  but  a  crazy  man  would  deliberately  cast  him 
self  within  the  power  of  Mangus's  implacable 
hatred  alike  of  American  and  Mexican. 

He  was  blindfolded  and  led  back  still  deeper 
into  the  heart  of  the  range,  where,  in  one  of  the 
wide  and  level  open  glades  one  finds  in  the  Rockies 
at  the  top  of  the  most  precipitous  and  nearly  im 
passable  gorges,  he  found  Mangus's  village  and 
was  brought  into  the  old  chief's  presence. 

The  village  must  have  numbered  at  least  two 
or  three  thousand,  for  the  little  beehive-like 
wickiups,  built  of  slender  boughs  stuck  in  the 
ground  and  intertwined  at  top,  the  only  shelter 
those  nomads  enjoyed  when  on  the  march  or  the 
war-path,  filled  all  the  glade  and  overflowed  among 
the  surrounding  pines. 

Arollo  told  Mangus  that  a  big  war  party  of  the 
Great  White  Chief  lay  encamped  at  the  foot  of 
the  range,  with  orders  to  pursue,  harass  and  fight 
him  and  his  people  until  they  were  subdued,  dis 
armed  and  helpless,  unless  he  personally  would 
come  down  to  the  camp,  there  to  make  a  treaty 
of  peace;  that  near  by  lay  a  small  detachment  of 
the  White  Chief's  soldiers  who  would  escort  him 
down  and  safely  back  to  his  people,  if  he  would 
consent  to  come;  that  if  he  refused  to  come,  in 
less  than  six  months  half  his  people  would  be 


MANGUS  COLORADO  99 

wiped  out  and  not  a  pony  nor  a  gun  left  to  the 
survivors. 

An  arbitrary  and  absolute  chief  of  his  people, 
Mangus  called  no  council,  advised  with  none  of 
his  followers,  not  even  with  the  then  young  but 
already  redoubtable  Manuelito  or  Geronimo. 
Accustomed,  like  the  great  field  general  he  was,  to 
meet  all  emergencies  with  an  instantaneous  de 
cision,  he  mounted  and  boldly  rode  with  Arollo, 
met  Captain  Sheldon  with  a  grim  "  How!  "  and 
signed  his  readiness  to  proceed. 

I  happened  to  be  present  in  front  of  the  cabin 
at  Apache  Teju  the  afternoon  that  Mangus  was 
brought  in,  and  heard  all  of  the  brief  conversa 
tion  that  passed  between  Colonel  West  and  him. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  coming  —  or  the  going 
—  of  old  Mangus  that  day. 

Mounted  on  about  as  wild  and  as  nearly  uncon 
trollable  a  little  sorrel  pony  as  any  Peach  and 
Cox  used  to  handle  when  we  were  together  in 
California,  notwithstanding  his  sixty-odd  years, 
his  frail  shell  of  a  saddle  and  stirrups  so  short 
that  his  knees  were  constantly  jabbing  at  his  chin, 
Mangus  sat  tight  to  that  pony  as  its  own  coat  of 
hair,  as,  frenzied  by  strange  sights  and  noises  of 
our  camp,  it  fought  him  for  freedom  and  flight 
back  up  among  the  other  wild  things  that  people 
the  sombre  pine-clad  gorges  of  its  native  hills. 

Personally,  both  in  physique  and  in  bearing, 
Mangus  was  the  most  magnificent  specimen  of 
savage  manhood  I  have  ever  seen.  He  was  six 
feet  five  inches  of  stature,  erect  and  haughty  of 


ioo  THE  VANGUARD 

pose,  with  a  grimly  severe  expression  of  counte 
nance,  rigid  as  a  face  cut  in  stone. 

To  none  but  General  West  and  his  staff  did  he 
offer  salutation;  for  soldiers  he  held  a  supreme 
contempt.  In  fact  he  once  remarked  to  an  in 
terpreter  that  a  soldier  is  lower  than  a  dog,  be 
cause  a  soldier  obeys  orders  while  a  dog  does 
not. 

Dismounting  in  front  of  the  cabin,  he  shook 
hands  with  General  West  and  his  staff,  and  then 
he  and  the  general  entered  the  cabin.  But  no 
more  had  Mangus  passed  well  within  the  door 
way  than  General  West  quickly  stepped  outside. 
Surprised,  and  evidently  suspicious,  the  Chief 
started  to  follow  the  general,  but  was  met  by  the 
fixed  bayonets  of  two  guards. 

Glaring  for  a  moment  at  the  general  like  a  mad 
dened  wild  beast  about  to  attack,  old  Mangus 
very  quietly  asked,  in  Spanish,  "  What  new  insult 
are  you  planning  for  me,  Chief?  " 

"  You  have  murdered  your  last  white  victim, 
you  old  scoundrel,"  replied  General  West. 

"  But  not  until  we  were  attacked  by  the  white 
men  who  come  digging  up  my  hills  for  the  yellow 
rock.  For  five  years  I  have  held  my  young  braves 
off  the  war-path,"  said  the  Chief. 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  General  West;  "  but  look 
down  into  Cook's  Canon  and  see  the  bleached 
bones  of  the  five  hundred  women  and  children 
you  and  your  people  massacred  there." 

"  But  you  —  you,  Chief,  are  a  greater  murderer 
than  I  am,  for  I  can  see  that  after  beguiling  me 


MANGUS  COLORADO  101 

into  your  power  under  promise  of  a  truce  and  to  ar 
range  a  peace  treaty,  you  have  had  in  your  heart 
no  other  purpose  than  to  take  and  kill  me." 

Whereupon,  turning  to  Sergeant  of  the  Guard 
Folgam,  General  West  said:  "  Sergeant,  this  old 
murderer  has  escaped  from  every  command  that 
has  had  him  captive  and  under  guard.  I  want 
him  to-morrow  morning,  dead  or  alive.  Do  you 
understand,  Sergeant?  I  want  him  dead  —  or 
alive !  " 

That  night  every  man  of  the  command  rolled  up 
in  his  blankets  certain  something  was  coming. 

Nor  was  it  long  coming.  Scarcely  an  hour 
after  taps  sounded,  about  ten  o'clock,  three  shots 
rang  out  on  the  still  night  air. 

Directly  thereafter,  Sergeant  Folgam  marched 
across  to  General  West's  tent  and  reported  that 
Mangus  had  been  shot  by  the  guard,  while  trying 
to  escape. 

"  Is  he  dead?  "  asked  the  general. 

"  He  is,  sir,"  replied  the  sergeant. 

"  Very  well,  Sergeant,"  said  the  general;  "  then 
let  his  guard  go  to  sleep." 

James  Collier  and  George  Mead  were  the  two 
guards  who  first  shot  Mangus,  and  then  Sergeant 
Folgam  rushed  into  the  cabin  and  gave  him  a  ball 
through  the  head  with  his  pistol. 

The  next  morning  our  command  was  formed 
and  on  the  march  before  daylight,  headed  for  an 
attack  of  Mangus's  village.  Bar  the  massacre 
of  troops,  this  affair  was  much  like  the  later  un 
fortunate  Custer  campaign  against  the  Sioux. 


102  THE  VANGUARD 

An  advance  detachment  of  two  troops  of  cav 
alry,  under  Captains  McClave  and  Sheldon,  struck 
the  village  before  our  infantry  could  get  in  range, 
so  that  all  we  found  when  we  reached  the  field 
were  two  dead  squaws,  who  happened  to  be  two  of 
the  wives  of  Mangus,  and  a  few  dead  bucks.  The 
rest  had  scattered  like  quail  among  the  pines  and 
cliffs.  Somebody  had  blundered  —  firing  and 
giving  the  alarm  before  our  forces  were  disposed 
within  striking  distance. 

Pursuit  of  the  scattered  band  through  those 
fastnesses  would  have  been  nothing  short  of  stu 
pidity,  for  they  would  have  been  perpetually  pot 
ting  our  men  from  ambush,  while  we  could  never 
hope  to  bring  them  to  a  decisive  encounter.  So, 
after  a  few  days  the  general  marched  the  cavalry 
back  to  the  Mesilla  cantonment  and  left  our  in 
fantry,  companies  to  guard  Pinos  Altos  for  a 
time. 

Turkeys  and  deer  were  plentiful  in  the  hills 
around  the  camp,  and,  notwithstanding  the  risk, 
slip  out  after  them  our  boys  now  and  then  would. 
One  Sunday  morning  six  of  my  company  so  con 
trived  to  evade  the  sentries ;  and  scarcely  had  they 
passed  out  of  sight  of  camp  before  we  heard 
heavy  firing. 

Immediately  Lieutenant  Higdon  was  ordered  to 
lead  out  a  party  of  twenty  of  us  to  their  relief. 
On  our  double-quick  across  the  hill  crest,  we 
passed  one  of  our  men  returning,  Bill  Patterson, 
and  our  lieutenant  ordered  him  to  fall  in.  But, 


M ANGUS  COLORADO  103 

although  he  had  his  gun  with  him,  later  we  noted 
that  Bill  had  failed  to  fall  in. 

When  we  reached  the  hunting  party,  we  found 
Private  Huzzy  killed,  Sergeant  Siddon  mortally 
wounded,  old  Hunt  so  badly  scared  he  was  no 
longer  able  to  load  and  fire  his  gun,  while  Private 
Reed  was  busy  making  a  splendid  fight  of  what 
must  have  seemed  to  him  a  sure  enough  forlorn 
hope. 

While  he  had  killed  five  of  the  attacking  party, 
his  enemies  numbered  at  least  sixty  warriors.  Di 
rectly  we  opened  on  them,  however,  they  dispersed, 
and  then  we  carried  our  dead  and  wounded  into 
camp. 

When  Bill  Patterson  was  brought  up  before 
Captain  Smith,  under  charges  for  failing  to  fall 
in  with  us  when  so  ordered  by  Lieutenant  Higdon, 
and  questioned,  he  replied :  "  Well,  Captain,  you 
know  it  was  the  Sabbath,  and  I  had  on  my  Sun 
day-go-to-meeting  clothes  and  didn't  want  to  get 
them  bloody." 

But  since  our  captain  did  not  pose  as  a  particu 
larly  religious  man,  Bill's  plea  won  him  nothing 
better  than  the  privilege  of  doing  double  duty 
and  plenty  of  outer  picket  post  service  for  a  month. 

After  our  return  to  Mesilla,  desertions  became 
very  frequent.  Finally,  when  a  private  named 
Clifford  deserted  and  was  caught  and  ironed  and, 
while  in  charge  of  Sergeant  Miller  of  K  Com 
pany,  contrived  to  negotiate  release  from  his  irons 
and  to  escape,  General  West  was  furious. 

And  while,  according  to  regulations,  a  delin- 


104  THE  VANGUARD 

quent  non-commissioned  officer  is  placed  under 
arrest  in  his  quarters,  the  general  had  Miller 
ironed  and  thrown  into  the  guard  house.  At  this 
the  whole  company  rebelled,  and  refused  to  drill 
until  the  sergeant  had  been  released  from  irons. 
All  save  one  man  laid  down  their  arms. 

At  10  A.  M.,  the  long  roll  was  beaten  and  Lieu 
tenant  Pattis  was  ordered  to  march  his  men  with 
out  arms  upon  the  parade  ground.  Company 
A  of  the  Fifth  Infantry  was  formed  on  the  left  of 
Company  K,  Company  E  on  their  right,  and  Com 
pany  D  in  their  front,  while  the' cavalry  was  lined 
up  behind  the  infantry.  Everybody  knew  hell 
was  going  to  pop  somehow  for  somebody,  pronto. 

As  soon  as  the  formation  was  finished,  General 
West  rode  up  in  front  of  the  mutinous  company, 
sabre  drawn,  and  demanded: 

"  Is  there  any  soldier  of  this  company  who  re 
fuses  to  drill  or  do  duty?  " 

Promptly,  in  a  clear  strong  voice,  Corporal 
Smith,  the  leader  of  the  mutiny,  answered: 

"  I  for  one,  sir,  will  neither  drill  nor  do  duty 
until  Sergeant  Miller  is  released  from  irons." 

For  a  moment  the  general  sat  gazing  at  the  cor 
poral,  as  if  in  a  brown  study,  while  the  ranks  stood 
silent  as  the  death  all  felt  sure  to  be  coming. 
Then  the  general  ordered: 

"  Corporal,  march  fifteen  paces  to  the  front!  " 

Smith  marched  out  steadily,  like  the  good  sol 
dier  he  was. 

The  general  ordered  him  to  remove  his  hat. 
He  obeyed. 


MANGUS  COLORADO  105 

Then  the  general  ordered  Captain  Mitchell  of 
D  Company  to  swing  his  company  to  the  left, 
opening  a  clear  space  beyong  the  corporal,  look 
ing  down  the  main  street  of  the  camp.  Riding 
up  to  the  corporal,  once  more  the  general  de 
manded:  "Will  you  go  to  duty?" 

"  Not  until  the  irons  are  knocked  off  of  Ser 
geant  Miller,"  he  firmly  replied. 

Wheeling  his  horse,  the  general  then  ordered: 

"  Captain  Mitchell,  shoot  that  man !  " 

"Load;  ready;  aim;  fire!  "  called  the  captain. 

A  volley  crashed,  but  Smith  stood  untouched, 
and  half  smiling,  it  seemed.  The  firing  squad  had 
shot  high. 

Yet  once  again  the  general  put  the  same  ques 
tion  to  the  corporal,  and  received  the  same  an 
swer;  once  more  ordered  Captain  Mitchell  to  fire. 
Again  the  volley  flew  wild,  this  time  killing  a  pri 
vate  of  A  Company,  who  was  serving  General 
West  as  cook,  riddling  a  government  forage 
wagon  with  holes  and  killing  its  team,  and  shot 
the  leg  off  of  a  woman  who  was  crossing  the  camp 
street,  starting  a  free-for-all  skedaddle  for  cover 
of  everybody  left  in  that  end  of  camp,  mules  in 
cluded. 

The  general  was  furious.  Riding  up  behind 
the  firing  squad,  he  commanded:  "  Load;  ready; 
aim!  Down  with  your  guns,  now  down;  down, 
I  say,  or  I  will  split  every  man  of  you  with  my 
sabre!  Now  fire!  " 

And  yet  Smith  fell  with  only  one  bullet  in  his 
chest! 


106  THE  VANGUARD 

The  rest  had  been  willing  to  hazard  death  at 
the  colonel's  sabre ! 

Rising  on  one  elbow,  the  corporal  feebly 
called: 

"  Don't  go  to  duty,  boys,  until  the  irons  are 
knocked  off  Sergeant  Miller  1  "  and  then  fell  back, 
dead. 

Then  the  general  rode  down  the  line  of  K 
Company  and  in  turn  presenting  his  sabre  point  at 
the  breast  of  each  and  every  man  of  them,  de 
manded:  "Will  you  do  duty?" 

And  from  each  got  a  vigorous,  if  not  a  whole 
hearted,  "Yes  I" 

The  rest  of  the  day  K  Company  was  kept  at  the 
hardest  kind  of  drill.  And  when  we  were  all 
formed  for  dress  parade  in  the  evening,  he  ad 
dressed  us: 

"  Soldiers,  I  want  you  to  understand  that  there 
have  been  over  fifty  desertions  from  this  command 
in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  and  that  hereafter  any 
man  who  refuses  to  do  duty  will  not  live  to  re 
peat  his  offence." 

Pretty  hard  seemed  to  us  then  the  general's 
discipline,  but  I  have  since  come  to  realise  he  was 
undoubtedly  in  the  right. 

In  March,  1863,  we  were  ordered  to  Fort 
Stanton.  On  the  march  up  past  the  soda  lake 
and  through  the  enormous  deposit  of  pulverised 
gypsum  known  as  The  White  Sands,  that  extends 
over  much  of  the  plain  between  San  Augustine  and 
Tularosa,  signs  of  Indians  were  seen. 


M ANGUS  COLORADO  107 

Our  orders  were  to  keep  well  closed  up  and 
never  to  stray  from  the  command.  But  when  we 
got  up  into  the  timber  near  the  head  of  the 
Ruidoso,  several  of  the  men  slipped  out  after 
game,  for  we  used  to  get  deadly  tired  of  nothing 
but  hardtack  and  bacon. 

They  had  not  been  gone  long  before  we  heard 
heavy  firing,  and  ten  of  us  were  ordered  to  the 
rescue.  Double-quicking  over  a  little  hill  toward 
the  sound  of  the  firing,  what  should  we  charge 
right  into  but  a  flock  of  about  a  hundred  wild  tur 
keys,  our  hu'nters  close  upon  their  heels.  Resist 
the  opportunity,  of  course,  we  could  not,  and 
joined  our  comrades  bombarding  them. 

Startled  by  the  still  heavier  firing,  forty  more 
men  were  rushed  out  to  our  relief,  our  first  lieu 
tenant,  Thomas  Chapman,  leading  them.  And 
once  he  reached  us  and  discovered  that,  while, 
to  be  sure,  we  were  actively  engaged  with  a  be- 
feathered  enemy,  that  nevertheless  the  alarm  had 
been  a  false  one,  he  was  mad  all  through. 

Presently,  when  he  learned  that  we  had  not 
brought  down  a  single  bird,  we  got  about  the 
hardest  cursing  I  ever  heard  a  bunch  of  men  re 
ceive.  Just  then  I  saw  a  turkey  ducking  through 
the  grass  about  fifty  yards  away,  and  took  after 
him,  shooting  my  best,  but  to  my  discomfiture  in 
a  double  sense.  For  I  both  failed  to  get  the  tur 
key  and  succeeded  in  getting  myself  sent  back  to 
camp  under  arrest. 

But  when  I  was  brought  up  before  my  captain, 
the  worst  I  got  was,  "  Sorry  I've  got  to  dismiss 


io8  THE  VANGUARD 

this  complaint;  you  ought  all  to  be  court-mar 
tialed  for  your  infernally  bad  marksmanship.  If 
I  could  spare  you  out  of  the  ranks,  I  would  turn 
every  man  of  you  into  camp  cooks. " 

How  we  came  to  do  such  shocking  shooting 
I  cannot  explain,  but  I  suppose  things  have  to  hap 
pen  that  way  sometimes. 

Fort  Stanton  had  been  occupied  and  burned  by 
the  rebels  shortly  before  its  occupation  by  the 
New  Mexico  and  California  troops.  The  post 
was  in  ruins.  Only  the  sutler's  store  had  been 
made  habitable.  The  troops  were  all  under 
canvas,  set  up  within  the  blackened  adobe 
walls. 

At  the  time,  famous  old  Kit  Carson,  the  great 
est  scout  and  Indian  fighter  the  Southwest  ever 
knew,  was  the  colonel  commanding  the  post.  His 
own  troops  were  all  native  Mexicans  from  Santa 
Fe  and  the  northern  placitas,  among  whom  Kit 
had  spent  most  of  his  life. 

In  his  own  command  was  a  contract  surgeon, 
Dr.  Whitlock,  a  kindly  old  man,  who  previous  to 
the  outbreak  of  hostilities  had  been  very  friendly 
with  the  Navajos,  and  who  was  beloved  by  them 
for  the  uniform  justice  and  kindness  with  which 
he  had  treated  them. 

One  day  Lieutenant  Graden  returned  from  a 
scout  through  the  Capitan  Mountains  with  his 
troop  of  New  Mexicans,  and  it  became  noised 
about  camp  that  he  had  made  a  big  kill  of  Nava 
jos.  In  his  troop  was  a  sergeant  named  Kelly 
who  hated  Lieutenant  Graden,  and  who  went  to 


MANGUS  COLORADO  109 

Dr.  Whitlock  and  told  him  that  Graden  had  made 
his  big  kill  by  inducing  a  village  he  found  to  come 
to  a  parley  and  then,  after  getting  them  drunk  and 
helpless,  had  massacred  the  lot. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  of  Captain  Graden,"  the 
doctor  replied,  "  but  if  it  is  as  you  say,  it  was  a 
cowardly  trick.'* 

Keen  for  the  chance  to  embroil  his  captain, 
Kelly  hastened  to  him  and  told  him  that  Dr. 
Whitlock  said  he  was  a  coward  for  killing  the  In 
dians. 

Drinking  heavily  in  celebration  of  the  success 
of  his  scout,  and  infuriated  by  the  alleged  charge 
of  cowardice,  Graden  hastened  across  the  parade 
ground  to  the  sutler's  store,  where  the  doctor  and 
other  officers,  Colonel  Kit  Carson  included,  were 
playing  cards.  He  cursed  the  doctor  outra 
geously,  called  him  a  cowardly  old  squaw-man,  and 
slapped  his  face. 

Colonel  Carson  ordered  him  to  his  quarters 
under  arrest.  As  he  turned  to  leave  the  room, 
the  doctor  calmly  said  to  him: 

"  Captain  Graden,  I  do  not  know  why  you  have 
made  this  assault  on  me,  but  when  you  are  sober 
I  will  show  you  that  I  am  not  a  coward." 

That  afternoon  Dr.  Whitlock  wrote  and  sent 
a  letter  to  Captain  Graden,  in  which  he  reminded 
him  that,  since  they  were  both  men  of  family,  it 
ill  became  them  to  pursue  a  quarrel  certain  to  end 
in  the  death  of  one  or  both,  and  then  proceeded 
to  carefully  state  precisely  what  he  had  actually 
said  to  Sergeant  Kelly. 


no  THE  VANGUARD 

But  the  captain  continued  his  drinking  and  did 
not  open  the  letter. 

The  next  morning  Dr.  Whitlock  was  standing 
talking  to  Colonel  Carson  in  front  of  the  latter's 
tent,  which  faced  the  centre  of  the  parade  ground, 
when  Captain  Graden  approached  and  handed 
the  doctor  a  note,  which  we  afterward  learned 
read: 

"  You  old  cur  of  a  squaw-man,  you  have  to 
fight  me  this  morning." 

Glancing  quickly  at  the  note,  the  doctor  quietly 
asked:  u  Captain,  you  surely  cannot  mean  this?  " 

"  But,  by  —  I  certainly  do !  "  growled  Graden. 

Their  pistols  flashed  out  simultaneously,  Gra- 
den's  a  navy  six,  the  doctor's  a  small  five-shooter, 
and  the  fight  was  on. 

Unsteady  of  his  all-night  debauch,  Graden's 
two  first  shots  missed,  when  the  doctor  shot  him 
close  to  the  heart.  This  so  shocked  Graden  that 
his  next  four  shots  also  flew  wild.  Then,  his  pis 
tol  emptied,  he  drew  a  second  he  had  concealed 
within  his  blouse,  and  with  his  first  shot  from  it 
lodged  a  ball  within  an  empty  chamber  of  the  doc 
tor's  five-shooter,  putting  it  out  of  action. 

But  in  that  same  instant,  it  must  have  been,  the 
doctor's  last  shot  struck  Graden  in  the  left  breast, 
close  to  his  first  wound,  and  he  fell  cursing  and 
calling  Lieutenant  Morris  to  turn  out  his  troop 
and  avenge  his  death. 

Some  of  the  bystanders  urged  Dr.  Whitlock  to 
run  for  the  quarters  of  the  California  troops,  but 
the  doctor  replied: 


MANGUS  COLORADO  in 

"  He  called  me  a  coward,  and  this  day  I  will 
run  from  no  one." 

Before  Colonel  Carson  could  stop  them,  out 
poured  Graden's  Mexicans,  and  the  brave  old  doc 
tor  fell,  riddled  by  more  than  twenty  bullets. 

The  entire  murderous  company  was  placed  un 
der  arrest,  but,  one  by  one,  they  escaped.  And 
to  this  day  the  bodies  of  the  doctor  and  the  cap 
tain  lie  side  by  side,  near  to  where  they  fell,  be 
neath  the  pines  of  old  Fort  Stanton,  on  a  broad- 
topped  hillock  thickly  planted  with  the  bones  of 
other  men  who  died  with  their  boots  on. 


—  VI  — 

SCOUTING  THE   JOURNEY   OF   DEATH 

ONCE  over  the  New  Mexico  border,  our 
companies  of  the  California  Gold  Bri 
gade  were  scattered  from  the  Rio 
Grande  to  the  Pourgatoire. 

Some  fought  Comanches  and  Kiowas  with  Kit 
Carson  in  the  north,  while  others  of  us  chased 
Navajos  and  Apaches  as  far  south  as  the  Texas 
line. 

Many  were  the  sharp  fights  and  hot  pursuits 
we  had  —  for  while  enlisted  as  infantry  we  were 
mounted  and  served  as  cavalry  —  through  the 
deep  gorges  of  the  Sacramento  and  Guadalupe 
Mountains,  along  the  head  waters  of  the  Dela 
ware,  Rocky  Arroyo,  Dog  Canon,  the  Ruidoso 
and  Bonita,  down  into  the  valley  of  the  Pecos  and 
out  over  the  arid  stretches  of  the  Staked  Plains, 
within  which  in  those  days  the  only  known  living 
water  was  Mescalero  Spring. 

To-day  the  vast  expanse  of  the  Staked  Plains, 
now  better  known  as  the  Texas  Panhandle,  is  rap 
idly  coming  under  fruitful  tillage  through  irriga 
tion,  made  possible  by  the  unlimited  stores  of  wa 
ter  that  lie  so  near  the  surface  that  in  many  places 
permanent  tanks  are  made  by  the  use  of  only  a 
plough  and  scraper. 

112 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       113 

In  those  days  it  was  believed  to  be  so  waterless 
that  several  of  our  men  out  on  scouts  lost  their 
lives  of  thirst  at  points  where,  had  they  only 
known,  they  might  have  dug  to  water  with  their 
knives ! 

However,  if  we  paid  the  scot,  some  in  death 
and  all  in  suffering,  of  the  pacification  of  the 
Staked  Plains,  we  at  least  have  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  it  was  we  who  made  possible  the 
prosperity  of  such  of  the  later  generation  as  have 
since  planted  there  their  homes. 

One  of  the  best  soldiers  and  by  far  the  best 
scout  and  Indian  trailer  of  our  California  regi 
ments  was  undoubtedly  First  Lieutenant  Albert 
J.  Fountain,  of  the  First  California  Volunteer 
Cavalry,  who  later  became  the  first  attorney-gen 
eral  of  the  State  of  Texas  under  Governor  Davis, 
in  the  reconstruction  days  after  the  war. 

Brave  to  utter  recklessness,  he  loved  nothing 
so  much  as  to  get  out  on  a  scout  in  the  moun 
tains,  often  entirely  alone,  never  with  more  than 
one  or  two  men  at  his  back.  Frequently  he  stayed 
out  on  such  scouts  one  to  two  weeks,  in  country 
so  thick  with  hostile  Navajos  or  Mescaleros  that 
nothing  but  the  outdoing  of  their  own  cunning 
enabled  him  to  win  safe  return  to  his  command. 

Nor  did  he  always  return  entirely  scatheless. 
In  fact,  one  such  prowl  well  out  into  the  Jornado 
del  Muerto  (the  Journey  of  Death),  to  the  west 
of  the  Oscuros,  nearly  cost  him  his  life. 

Working  east  toward  Fort  Stanton,  one  evening 
found  him  travelling  parallel  to  a  much-used  In- 


ii4  THE  VANGUARD 

dian  trail  that  led  up  through  a  heavily  timbered 
dry  canon  to  the  north  of  Tularosa. 

His  mate  on  the  scout  was  the  famous  Juan 
Arollo,  who  the  year  before  had  brought  old 
Mangus  Colorado  into  General  West's  power,  and 
the  two  of  them  made  the  strongest  pair  at  the 
Indian  game  that  could  be  dealt  out  of  our  mili 
tary  deck. 

For  two  days  and  nights  they  had  been  without 
water.  Their  mounts  were  fagged  to  a  near 
finish,  and  they  themselves  were  enduring  the  tor 
tures  none  can  understand  except  such  as  have 
been  forced  to  like  deprivation  in  the  blazing  heat 
of  the  southern  plains. 

Water  and  rest  they  must  have  or  lose  their 
horses,  or  perhaps  even  themselves  perish.  To  be 
sure,  they  were  approaching  a  spring  well  known 
to  both  of  them.  But  it  burst  out  of  the  base  of 
a  cliff  and  quickly  disappeared  in  the  thirsty  sands 
close  beside  the  trail,  and  was  often  in  possession 
of  the  hostiles. 

It  was  imperative  they  should  take  the  chance. 
So,  tying  their  horses  in  the  pines  a  good  half 
mile  above  the  spring,  they  carefully  stalked  down 
to  it,  and  to  their  joy  found  it  unoccupied. 

With  great  care  to  avoid  leaving  any  sign  of 
their  visit,  they  first  drank  their  own  fill  and  then 
each  made  a  bucket  of  his  hat  and  climbed  back  to 
their  famishing  mounts. 

One  more  round  trip  they  so  made  successfully, 
and  were  returning  for  a  third  when,  stealing 
softly  forward  as  before,  the  keen  ear  of  Arollo 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       115 

caught  the  soft  clink  of  unshod  pony  hoofs  in  the 
loose  shingle  of  the  steep  descent  from  the  sum 
mit  of  the  range  to  the  spring.  A  band  of  In 
dians  —  ten  to  one  a  war  party  —  was  approach 
ing. 

Thus  in  those  days  was  one  new  peril  ever 
dovetailing  into  an  old  one;  when  one  felt  safest, 
then  it  was  cuidarse  closest. 

Fortunately  night  had  fallen,  with  a  half  moon 
aloft  that  helped  greatly  to  enable  noiseless  move 
ment.  Indeed,  without  the  moon  there  would 
have  been  no  war  party  abroad,  for  no  Indians 
ever  went  out  on  foray  in  the  dark  of  the  moon. 
'Night  prowlers  they  were  by  instinct  and  habit, 
like  all  other  wild  predatory  things  the  world 
over. 

The  white  men  had  brought  their  horses  down 
to  within  three  hundred  yards  of  the  spring  for 
better  convenience  in  watering.  While  Fountain 
remained  on  watch,  Arollo  hastened  back  to  muz 
zle  the  animals,  for  one  neigh  would  have  be 
trayed  them  to  the  enemy. 

Slipping,  sliding,  the  band  jogged  rapidly  down 
the  declivity,  until  it  sounded  like  the  shingle  had 
gone  adrift  and  was  cascading  into  the  gulch. 

Stealing  cautiously  forward,  for  advance  foot 
guards  might  be  working  down  the  slope  ahead 
of  the  band,  Fountain  dropped  among  some  boul 
ders  a  scant  thirty  yards  above  the  spring,  where 
he  had  a  clear  view  of  its  immediate  environs. 

In  small  groups  and  one  by  one,  the  usual  loose 
Indian  formation  on  march,  they  filed  in,  until 


n6  THE  VANGUARD 

Fountain  had  counted  approximately  eighty  war 
riors. 

Quickly  the  simple  gear  was  stripped  from  the 
ponies,  a  half  dozen  young  bucks  were  told  off 
to  drive  them  down  the  gulch  as  soon  as  watered, 
to  where  the  canon  opened  out  and  better  feed 
was  to  be  found,  while  the  rest  of  the  band  busied 
themselves  opening  their  parfleches  (great  pouches 
made  of  rawhide) ,  and  emptying  them  of  meat. 

Soon  a  number  of  tiny  fires  were  alight  —  and 
it  was  of  the  Indians  we  had  early  learned  that 
only  at  an  actually  tiny  camp-fire  may  one  con 
veniently  cook  and  thoroughly  and  comfortably 
warm  himself  —  slender  boughs  cut,  and  on  their 
sharpened  points  thin  strips  of  juicy  venison  were 
cooking  and  sending  up  into  Fountain's  nostrils 
tempting  odours  that  left  it  hard  for  him,  half 
famished  as  he  was,  to  resist  descending  unbidden 
to  the  savage  feast. 

A  soft  hiss  in  his  ear  gave  Fountain  his  first 
hint  of  Arollo's  return.  There  for  an  hour  they 
lay  watching  the  camp  of  the  enemy  until,  stuffed 
as  only  savages  can  gorge  themselves,  one  after 
another  stretched  out  where  he  had  been  squat 
ting  and  eating  and  composed  himself  for  sleep. 

All  down  and  the  camp  silent,  the  white  men 
crept  back  up  the  hill  to  the  near  vicinity  of  their 
horses,  where  they  could  confer  with  safety. 

What  to  do  was  a  puzzle.  Arollo  urged  that 
they  should  mount,  slip  down  the  canon  and 
stampede  the  Indian  pony  herd,  as  the  worst  blow 
the  pair  of  them  could  hope,  single-handed,  to 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       117 

strike  them,  or  else  that  one  should  undertake  the 
stampeding  of  the  ponies  while  the  other  re 
mained  above  the  camp  on  the  chance  of  potting 
a  few  warriors,  and  then  making  a  safe  get-away 
on  his  horse. 

But  this  crude  strategy  did  not  appeal  to  Foun 
tain,  for  while  the  setting  the  band  afoot,  obvi 
ously,  must  cause  them  serious  immediate  embar 
rassment,  it  was  sure  to  be  no  more  than 
temporary,  for  in  those  days  the  tribes  always  had 
heavy  reserves  of  ponies  hidden  away  in  one  or 
another  of  their  home  camps  in  the  hills. 

Plainly  this  party  was  out  to  strike  a  serious 
blow  somewhere.  But  where?  At  the  overland 
travel  along  the  old  road  that  crossed  the  Jornado 
del  Muerto,  or  at  the  Mexican  settlements  bor 
dering  the  Rio  Grande?  If  their  intentions  could 
be  learned,  it  might  be  possible  to  balk  them.  At 
any  rate,  could  he  fathom  their  plans,  the  nearest 
cantonment  of  troops  could  be  advised. 

If  the  Indians'  plan  was  to  strike  the  settle 
ments  around  Valverde,  then  the  little  garrison  at 
Fort  McRae,  located  at  the  Ojo  del  Muerto  in 
the  Caballo  Mountains,  must  be  notified,  to  stand 
any  chance  of  either  heading  them  off  or  of  a  suc 
cessful  pursuit;  if,  instead,  they  were  planning 
a  descent  on  the  placitas  above  Dona  Ana  and  be 
low  the  Big  Canon  of  the  Rio  Grande,  the  com 
manding  officer  of  the  troops  in  cantonment  at 
Mesilla  must  be  reached. 

As  for  the  Jornado  del  Muerto,  they  might  at 
tack  the  travel  on  the  old  Chihuahua-Santa  Fe 


n8  THE  VANGUARD 

trail  that  crossed  it  at  almost  any  point  with  equal 
chances  of  success,  for  of  the  entire  ninety-mile 
stretch  without  a  single  drop  of  sweet  water,  al 
most  every  step  of  the  way  led  through  a  nearly 
unbroken  succession  of  natural  ambushes  —  from 
which  fact,  and  the  absence  of  water,  this  vast 
plain  got  its  name,  the  Journey  of  Death,  having 
been  so  named  by  the  Spaniards  away  back  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  when  they  found  it  almost  im 
possible  to  get  a  column  across  it  without  a  heavy 
toll  in  deaths  from  thirst  and  the  perpetually 
harrying  tribesmen. 

And  yet  avoid  this  road  none  could  whose  jour 
ney  led  him  north  or  south.  To  the  east  lay  the 
arid  fastnesses  of  the  Oscuro  Range;  to  the  west 
the  equally  dry  Caballos,  and  the  Big  Canon  of 
the  Rio  Grande. 

Perhaps  no  road  in  the  world  has  been  marked 
by  such  disastrous  ambushes,  notwithstanding  the 
plain  is  never  more  than  slightly  undulating  and 
for  wide  areas  is  even  level  as  a  floor,  while  it 
bears  no  growth  taller  than  the  short,  curling 
grama  grass. 

But  the  ranges  to  east  and  west  of  the  Jor- 
nado  del  Muerto  are  purely  eruptive,  and  in  an 
cient  days  some  eruption,  probably  that  which 
created  the  ranges  themselves,  blanketed  the  plain 
from  end  to  end  with  a  flow  of  lava,  ten  to  twenty 
feet  in  thickness. 

Then,  later,  came  a  convulsion  of  the  earth's 
crust  that  compressed  into  great  folds  this  vast 
field  of  lava  and  ultimately  broke  these  folds 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       119 

asunder.  To-day  they  stand  out  of  the  surface 
of  the  plain  in  great  ledges,  sometimes  running 
many  miles  in  length,  and  five  to  twenty  feet  in 
height.  Thus  they  form  prodigious  natural  trin- 
cheras,  under  shelter  of  which  an  army  corps 
could  be  extended  in  line  of  battle. 

It  was  through  mazes  like  this,  or  parallel  to 
and  within  a  few  yards  of  long  reaches  of  con 
tinuous  ledges,  that  the  road  ran.  The  straight 
ledges  could,  of  course,  be  fairly  well  scouted  by 
an  advance  guard,  but  against  ambush  at  deadly 
short  range  in  the  passages  through  the  mazes  no 
safeguard  was  possible. 

This  was  the  problem  that  Lieutenant  Foun 
tain  and  Juan  Arollo  confronted,  plainly  impossi 
ble  of  solution  except  by  following  the  band. 
That  would  be  a  dangerous  undertaking,  since 
wide  reaches  of  level  plain  had  to  be  crossed, 
where  from  any  crest  horsemen  would  be  visible 
miles  away.  But  follow  the  Indians  they  must, 
until  their  objective  point  could  be  determined, 
and  then  make  a  dash  for  the  nearest  post,  be  it 
Fort  McRae  or  Mesilla.  It  was  the  only  chance 
of  checking  the  savages1  design,  and  the  scouts 
were  not  long  in  reaching  a  mutual  agreement  to 
take  it. 

Since  God  alone  knew  what  tests  of  endurance 
both  men  and  beasts  must  encounter  the  follow 
ing  day,  the  horses  must  have  food  and  the  men 
rest.  So  they  muffled  their  animals'  hoofs  in 
strips  of  blanket  cut  from  their  saddle  cloths, 
and  led  them  back  farther  into  the  hills  until  they 


120  THE  VANGUARD 

found  a  small  open  glade  where  they  could  soon 
get  their  fill  of  the  juicy  mountain  grasses.  Then, 
passing  into  the  shadows  of  the  heavy  timber  that 
surrounded  the  glade,  one  man  slept  while  the 
other  kept  an  alert  watch. 

Thus  the  chill  mountain  night  passed  without 
incident,  until,  when  the  stars  told  of  the  near 
approach  of  dawn,  Fountain  roused  Arollo  and 
told  him  to  saddle  their  mounts,  and  then  stole 
back  down  toward  the  spring  and  concealed  him 
self  in  a  good  position  to  observe  the  enemy. 

As  dawn  was  breaking  the  Indian's  night  guard 
brought  the  pony  herd  clattering  up  the  gulch,  and 
quickly  the  camp  was  afoot.  No  time  was  wasted 
feeding. 

Immediately  mounts  were  saddled,  slender 
packs  adjusted,  and  the  warriors  mounted;  when, 
each  gnawing  a  chunk  of  the  cold  meat  cooked  the 
night  before,  the  band  filed  off  down  the  gulch, 
ghastly  grey  figures  that  looked  in  the  half-light 
like  savage  spirits  risen  from  their  graves  for  a 
haunt  of  their  ancient  war  trails. 

Fountain  returned  to  Arollo,  and  they  brought 
their  horses  down  to  the  spring.  Then  down  the 
gulch  on  the  heels  of  the  Navajos  they  proceeded, 
Arollo  two  hundred  yards  in  the  lead,  afoot,  Foun 
tain  following  with  the  horses;  for  there  was  no 
telling  what  rear  guard  might  be  lurking  behind 
the  column,  or  what  halts  might  be  made.  Still, 
any  halt  was  improbable,  for  the  hurried  start 
and  saddle  breakfast  left  it  sure  they  had  struck 
out  for  a  long  march. 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       121 

The  sun  rose  a  clear,  blazing  ball  of  fire,  un 
curtained  by  intervening  mists,  as  usual  in  those 
arid  high  altitudes,  warrant  of  a  blistering  day 
notwithstanding  the  season  was  early  autumn. 
Downward  they  plodded. 

Gradually  the  canon  widened  and  the  hills  sunk 
to  ever  lower  elevations,  until  now  and  then  they 
began  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  plain  below  and  of 
the  glittering  hill  crests  of  the  White  Sands,  a  long 
strip  running  north  and  south  through  the  sear 
yellow  grama. 

For  several  hours  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the 
quarry.  But  when  at  last  the  trail  left  the  canon 
at  a  point  where  it  wound  away  into  the  south 
and  bore  straight  westward  across  the  summit  of 
a  lofty  outpost  of  the  range,  far  out  on  the  plain 
below  them  a  column  of  dust  located  the  position 
and  progress  of  the  Navajos. 

There  Fountain  and  Arollo  stopped,  and  waited 
until  the  band  was  well  within  the  hummocky  belt 
of  the  White  Sands,  when,  sure  their  dust  could 
not  be  seen,  fhey  galloped  forward  without  a 
break  until  they  themselves  had  entered  the  shel 
ter  of  the  Sands. 

Then  forward  through  the  Sands  they  ploughed, 
distressing  heavy  going  for  their  horses,  finally 
reaching  the  westernmost  outposts  of  the  sand  hills 
and  again  sighting  the  Indians,  and  still  marching 
straight  on  into  the  west. 

And  thus  for  hours  they  plodded  on,  hanging 
back  within  shelter  when  only  naked  plain  lay  be 
fore  them,  galloping  their  best  to  make  up  lost 


122  THE  VANGUARD 

distance  whenever  intervening  lava  dikes  permit 
ted,  over  a  low  pass  in  the  Oscuros  and  out  upon 
the  Jornado  del  Muerto. 

High  noon  came  at  last,  and  even  ruthless  sav 
ages  must  give  their  mounts  rest  or  get  set  afoot. 
So  their  pursuers  were  not  surprised,  although 
pleased  enough,  when  from  a  crest  they  could  see 
that  the  dust  column  which  had  been  their  u  pillar 
of  cloud  "  had  disappeared,  and  in  its  stead  they 
were  able  to  dimly  discern  a  black  blotch  upon  the 
plain  that,  remaining  motionless,  indicated  that 
the  Indians  had  halted  and  unsaddled  for  midday 
rest.  Dismounting,  separating,  they  advanced  at 
a  foot  pace  to  avoid  kicking  up  a  dust  until 
they  had  come  within  two  miles  of  the  Indians, 
when  they,  too,  off-saddled  in  a  shallow  swale 
and  stretched  themselves  for  the  hour's  halt, 
or  more,  they  knew  the  Indians  were  sure  to 
make. 

So  far  they  were  coming  on  famously  and  made 
sure  they  would  soon  be  able  to  fathom  the  ene 
mies'  plans. 

Tired  of  their  night's  vigil,  both  stretched  com 
fortably  on  the  ground  and  fell  silent. 

And  both,  as  it  turned  out,  dropped  off  in  a 
doze  —  a  doze  that  upset  all  their  contrivings  for 
the  discomfiture  of  the  Navajos  and  came  near 
costing  them  their  lives. 

Presently  Fountain  was  awakened  —  by  he 
knew  not  what.  Lying  half  conscious,  directly 
his  ear  was  attracted  by  a  low  rhythmic  crackling, 
and  he  lay  wondering  whatever  the  sound  could 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       123 

be  for  a  time,  all  senses  dulled,  without  suspicion 
of  its  terrible  significance. 

But  when,  shortly,  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke  swept 
over  him,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  hurried  toward 
his  comrade  —  to  find  a  wide  line  of  fire  sweeping 
upon  him,  swiftly  driven  by  the  wind! 

A  prairie  fire,  the  last  worst  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  them,  Arollo  had  unwittingly 
started  by  the  fall  into  the  dry  grama  grass  of  his 
lighted  cigarette,  released  by  his  sleep-numbed 
fingers ! 

Their  game  was  up.  Doubtless  the  Indians 
were  already  riding  toward  them,  full  tilt,  and 
their  chance  of  escape  was  reduced  to  a  matter  of 
seconds. 

And  as  they  threw  on  their  saddles,  both  agreed 
that  their  only  hope  of  escape  lay  in  making  a  hard 
run  straight  north,  by  which  they  might  circle 
round  the  Indians,  to  the  westward,  and  reach 
Fort  McRae,  at  the  Ojo  del  Muerto. 

Both  well  knew  that  they  could  not  hope  to  win 
by  more  than  a  neck,  for  to  the  north  of  thera 
the  longest  straight  lava  ledge  on  the  Jornado  ran 
due  east  and  west,  without  a  break,  impassable  to 
horsemen  except  at  one  point  for  more  than  ten 
miles.  They  must  either  swing  around  and  past 
the  Indians  to  the  south  of  the  barrier  or  must 
make  the  pass  where,  through  a  clutter  of  great 
boulders,  a  led  horse  could  pick  his  way. 

Quickly  they  were  in  the  saddle  and  spurring 
away  into  the  north.  And  none  too  soon,  for  at 
the  first  lofty  roll  of  the  plain  they  crossed,  a 


124  THE  VANGUARD 

glance  back  showed  them  a  score  of  Navajos  lying 
low  on  their  horses'  withers,  heels  kicking  and 
quirts  plying  mercilessly  at  every  jump,  headed 
for  the  smoke  they  were  leaving,  and  a  scant  half- 
mile  from  it. 

There  was  no  such  luck  as  that  they  should  be 
permitted  to  cross  the  ridge  unseen.  The  In 
dians  discovered  them  the  moment  they  were  lash 
ing  across  the  crest,  and  the  band  quickly  swerved. 
But,  oddly  it  seemed  to  Fountain  and  Arollo  at 
first,  not  in  direct  pursuit  of  them.  Instead  the 
Indians  headed  across  their  rear. 

Was  it  a  move  to  try  to  turn  them  back  on  the 
main  command,  or  to  make  it  impossible  for  them 
to  turn  the  east  end  of  the  ledge?  And  what  was 
the  main  band  doing?  Had  it  detached  another 
force  to  bear  up  to  the  west  of  them? 

On  they  rode  at  the  top  speed  they  dared  put 
their  horses  to  and  yet  save  them  for  the  long 
pull  they  knew  they  would  have  to  make.  Had 
the  pursuers  who  had  swung  round  their  rear  to 
the  east  of  them  ridden  directly  after  them,  it 
seemed  certain  they  must  have  been  overtaken  in 
the  first  three  miles,  for,  notwithstanding  the  wide 
detour  necessary  to  their  manoeuvre,  they  had  ma 
terially  reduced  the  intervening  distance. 

It  soon  became  perfectly  certain  that  at  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  smoke  the  Navajos  had  jumped 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  the  work  of  a 
small  patrol  of  troops,  who  would  realise  they 
could  not  expect  to  escape  to  the  south,  and  who, 
the  moment  they  learned  they  were  being  pur- 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       125 

sued,  would  be  sure  either  to  strive  to  turn  the 
east  end  of  the  barrier,  toward  Fort  Stanton,  to 
race  north  to  and  through  the  gap,  or  to  swing 
west  and  try  to  make  Fort  McRae,  at  Ojo  del 
Muerto. 

With  savage  cunning  they  were  carrying  out 
manoeuvres  almost  certain  to  checkmate  them. 
Through  the  broken  country  on  their  west,  one 
band  was  undoubtedly  racing  straight  for  the  gap, 
and  another  must  be  following  more  leisurely  on 
their  right  flank. 

The  blazing  hot  afternoon  wore  on.  Pace  of 
both  pursued  and  pursuers  slackened,  for  no  beasts 
could  long  continue  at  their  top  speed  in  the  heat 
and  across  the  sandy  reaches  of  the  Jornado.  In 
deed,  toward  evening  Fountain  and  his  compan 
ion  began  to  take  heart,  for  they  were  steadily 
gaining;  in  the  long  spurt  to  gain  their  right  flank, 
evidently  the  Indians  had  ridden  the  heart  out  of 
their  mounts. 

The  ominous  black  wall  of  the  lava  ledge  now 
loomed  plainer  at  each  hard  labouring  bound  of 
their  panting  horses.  Turn  eastward  they  could 
not,  for  that  would  be  to  lose  to  the  pursuing  party 
the  distance  they  had  gained  and  mean  a  finish 
fight  with  no  better  cover  than  the  perpendicular 
wall  of  the  ledge  to  protect  their  rear.  Turn 
westward  for  Fort  McRae  they  dared  not;  their 
mounts  were  too  near  done. 

On  and  on  their  worn  horses  unsteadily  plunged, 
no  more  spring  in  their  pasterns,  drawn  of  flank, 
breath  coming  in  short,  agonised  sobs.  At  any 


126  THE  VANGUARD 

instant  one  of  the  now  momentary  stumbles  might 
bring  them  to  earth  for  good. 

As  the  sun  sank  behind  the  purple  summit  of 
the  Caballos  the  band  on  their  right  swung  into 
more  direct  pursuit  of  them. 

The  short  twilight  faded  apace.  Would  the 
gap  in  the  ledge  never  be  reached?  Or  had  they 
been  crowded  to  the  west  of  it  by  the  band?  Cer 
tainly  they  must  have  missed  it,  for  now  they  had 
been  pushing  west  parallel  with  the  basalt  wall  for 
a  good  twenty  minutes. 

But,  finally,  just  as  the  blue-black  night  of  the 
high  plateau  enshrouded  them,  to  their  joy  they 
distinguished  a  deep  nick  in  the  horizontal  wall 
that,  as  they  advanced,  showed  the  boulder-strewn 
slope  that  left  no  doubt  it  was  the  gap  they 
sought. 

Here,  indeed,  was  the  gap.  But  did  it  hold 
for  them  death  or  safety?  If  unoccupied,  they 
could  hold  it  against  their  enemies  as  long  as  their 
ammunition  lasted.  But  if  occupied  their  doom 
was  sealed. 

Could  the  Indians  have  won  through  to  it  ahead 
of  them?  Difficult,  but  possible.  True,  not 
once  had  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  movement  to 
the  west  of  them.  But  this  fact  to  them  was  an 
ominous  rather  than  an  encouraging  sign,  for  they 
well  knew  the  enemy  was  much  too  wily  to  have 
left  their  west  flank  uncovered. 

Come  what  might,  the  gaining  possession  of 
the  gap  must  be  attempted;  within  a  few  minutes 
their  horses  must  go  down,  and  then  it  would  re- 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       127 

main  only  a  matter  of  minutes  until  their  pursuers 
were  upon  them. 

At  the  foot  of  the  tiny  pass  they  dropped  off 
of  their  trembling  horses  and  drew  their  pistols. 
They  advanced  up  the  steep  slope,  leading  their 
mounts,  winding  and  twisting  their  way  through 
the  sand  that  had  sifted  in  between  great  boulders 
strewn  so  thickly  that  they  were  scarcely  able  to 
work  the  horses  through  them. 

Three-fourths  of  the  way  up  the  ascent,  on  the 
right  lay  a  deep  but  low  recess,  sheltered  from 
fire  from  the  opposite  wall.  If  they  could  reach 
it  they  should  be  able  to  hold  it  until  starved  out 
—  and  there  was  a  chance  the  Indians  would  starve 
out  first  for  water. 

Caution  in  their  advance  was  useless.  If  the 
pass  was  occupied,  it  was  out  of  the  question  to 
get  through  undetected. 

So  on  up  they  plodded. 

Then  it  all  came  in  a  second.  Coincidently  with 
the  volley  the  Indians  poured  upon  them,  upon 
each  sprang  a  pair  of  lancers.  Fountain  ac 
counted  for  his  brace  before  they  got  within  strik 
ing  distance,  but  Arollo  was  less  fortunate.  He 
failed  to  down  his  second  antagonist  until  he  had 
received  a  lance  thrust  through  the  lung  that 
dropped  him. 

While  his  left  shoulder  was  broken  by  the  first 
fire,  a  shot  that  nearly  knocked  him  down,  Foun 
tain  sprang  forward  over  their  horses,  struggling 
in  their  death  agonies,  to  the  aid  of  Arollo,  just 
in  time  to  drop  a  fifth  warrior  who  was  leaping 


iz8  THE  VANGUARD 

forward  to  finish  him.  But  in  the  very  instant 
he  fired,  a  violent  last  kick  by  Arollo's  dying  horse 
broke  his  leg  and  sent  him  rolling  within  the  re 
cess  both  had  been  praying  they  might  reach. 

No  sooner  did  Fountain  realise  the  mixed  lot  of 
harm  and  help  the  horse  had  handed  him,  than, 
quickly  reloading,  he  painfully  dragged  himself 
within  reach  of  Arollo,  firing  at  random  as  he  ad 
vanced  to  keep  the  enemy  under  cover,  and  seized 
his  mate  and  drew  him  beneath  the  shelter. 
Meantime,  Arollo  had  fainted  from  loss  of  blood. 

There  beside  his  unconscious  companion  sat 
Fountain,  his  pain-racked  frame  backed  by  the  rear 
wall  of  the  recess,  weakening  fast  of  his  wounds, 
but  struggling  manfully  to  resist  a  loss  of  con 
sciousness  from  which  he  well  knew  there  was 
small  chance  of  awakening. 

Nor  was  his  desperate  fight  to  maintain  an 
alert  guard  against  surprise  without  reward. 
Twice,  at  long  intervals,  encouraged  by  the  un 
broken  silence  of  their  quarry,  a  slender  shadow 
came  slowly  worming  along  the  sand  toward  the 
entrance  and  both  finished  alike,  as  an  added 
barricade  of  his  front. 

At  last  toward  morning,  when  nearing  lapse 
into  that  indifference  to  consequences  of  which 
the  freezing  permit  themselves  to  fall  asleep, 
Fountain's  ear  caught  a  distant  sound.  Could  it 
be?  Yes,  it  could  be  nothing  but  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  the  hoofs  of  a  troop  of  cavalry,  advancing 
at  a  sharp  trot  and  in  close  column. 

Heard  for  a  moment  during  the  brief  passage 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  DEATH       129 

of  a  dry  watercourse,  he  nevertheless  could  not  be 
mistaken;  the  loose  order  of  no  movement  of 
mounted  Indians  could  so  nearly  duplicate  that 
sound  as  to  deceive  trained  ears. 

Silence  ensued  for  no  more  than  five  minutes, 
perhaps,  although  it  seemed  to  him  five  years,  and 
then  again  he  heard  the  sound  plainer  —  nearer. 

Was  their  approach  accident?  Or  had  they 
rightly  marked  down  his  position  by  the  firing? 
Surely  not  the  latter,  as  for  more  than  two  hours 
the  silence  of  the  dead  that  lay  in  front  of  the  re 
cess  had  reigned  around  him.  He  must  take  no 
chances  on  his  own  account  or  theirs.  The  troop 
must  be  ignorant  of  the  presence  of  the  two  score 
or  more  Navajos,  who  lay  in  ambush  around  him 
and  near  to  the  line  of  march  along  which  they 
were  advancing.  He  must  warn  them. 

Three  times  he  fired  his  pistol  at  five  second 
intervals;  waited  ten  seconds  and  then  fired  three 
times,  again  with  five  second  intermissions,  in  the 
hope  the  regularity  of  the  fire  would  be  recognised 
by  them  as  a  signal  of  soldiers  in  distress. 

And  that  it  was  so  recognised  he  soon  had  evi 
dence,  for  again  the  stillness  of  the  night  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  hoofs,  now  crashing  at  a 
gallop  across  another  ribbon  of  shingle. 

From  above  and  to  right  and  left  of  him  he 
now  heard  the  sibilant  hiss  of  soft  Navajo  voices 
counselling  in  low  tones  for  a  few  seconds ;  then,  he 
thought,  the  faint  rustle  of  movement  all  around 
him,  intangible  as  a  flight  of  spirits;  then  the  beat 
of  the  hoofs  of  Indian  ponies,  racing  away  to  the 


i3o  THE  VANGUARD 

north.     Then  again,  and  for  the  last  time,  the 
rhythmic  thunder  of  galloping  cavalry. 

With  his  last  remaining  wisp  of  will,  Fountain 
once  more  pulled  the  trigger  of  his  pistol  and  then 
dropped  unconscious  across  the  body  of  Arollo, 
not  to  awaken  until  the  scouting  troop  that  was 
bringing  them  in  was  nearing  Fort  McRae. 


—  VII  — 

THE   DESERTER 

MY  company  was  stationed  at  Fort 
Stanton,  on  the  upper  Bonito  in  New 
Mexico,  from  March,  1863,  to  the 
spring  of  1864.  Major  Joseph 
Smith,  our  first  captain,  was  in  command.  Our 
company  officers  were  E.  B.  Frink,  captain; 
Thomas  Chapman,  first  lieutenant,  and  William 
M.  Higdon,  second  lieutenant,  who,  like  the  ma 
jority  of  our  men,  were  old  California  miners. 

It  was  while  at  Fort  Stanton  that  I  met  famous 
old  Kit  Carson.  The  one  thing  Kit  loved  next 
to  an  Indian  fight  was  to  get  a  crowd  about  him 
and  spin  yarns. 

Many  were  the  bitter  winter  nights,  when  the 
snow  lay  so  deep  in  the  gulches  of  the  Sacra- 
mentos,  of  El  Capitan,  and  even  along  the  foot 
hills  that  the  Indian  ponies  were  so  nearly  starv 
ing  that  the  Navajos  were  forced  to  sit  tight  in 
their  lodges  and  give  settlers  and  overland  travel 
a  rest,  that  we  crowded  around  the  big  fireplace 
in  the  sutler's  store,  listening  to  Kit. 

Notwithstanding  his  lifelong  rough  experiences 
as  trapper,  trader,  Indian  fighter  and  scout,  it  was 
a  sterling  sound  character  old  Kit  preserved.  This 


132  THE  VANGUARD 

was  constantly  cropping  out  in  his  yarns;  the  old 
fellow  seemed  always  picking  them  to  point  us 
youngsters  a  moral  of  some  sort,  usually  in  rela 
tion  to  the  service. 

With  his  low,  quiet  voice  and  thin,  stern  face, 
the  boys  used  to  call  these  yarnings  "  Kit's  preach 
ings,"  but  all  the  same  they  never  lacked  interest 
that  held  us  as  long  as  it  suited  him  to  talk. 

One  night  he  began :  "  Boys,  a  man  ought  to 
study  a  plenty  before  he  enlists  to  fight  for  Uncle 
Sam;  and,  once  enlisted,  if  he  finds  the  discipline 
galling  him  and  gets  to  thinking  about  jumping 
it,  he  sure  ought  to  keep  a  studying  it  over  until 
he  gets  himself  convinced  that  a  deserter  is  a 
bigger  d — d  fool  than  a  loco  horse  —  and  I  reckon 
all  of  you  sabe  how  a  loco  goes  tangling  his  feet 
up  and  rooting  grass  with  his  nose  every  time  he 
tries  to  move  sudden. 

"  Just  the  same  with  the  service.  The  sanest 
and  straightest  man  that  ever  marked  time  never 
got  the  deserting  bee  in  his  cap  and  nursed  it  till 
he  got  enough  stuck  on  it  to  follow  it  off,  that 
contrived  to  keep  sense  enough  to  pick  bugs  with 
the  chickens. 

"  Fact  is,  it's  a  worse  break  than  running  off 
another  fellow's  saddle  horses  or  robbing  his 
traps  or  sluice  boxes,  which  hurts  only  the  one  fel 
low  whose  stuff  you've  got,  whereas  deserting  is 
an  offence  against  every  last  citizen  of  this  big 
bunch  of  states  and  territories  you  have  sworn  to 
serve.  Never  heard  tell  of  one  that  didn't  go 
rotten  bad  and  keep  right  on  getting  worse  until 


THE  DESERTER  133 

some  proper  patriot  come  along  and  put  his  light 
out. 

"  It's  mighty  seldom  an  officer  goes  loco  that 
way,  luckily,  but  when  he  does  you  can  always 
gamble  that,  much  quicker  than  a  private,  he'll 
go  mangy  as  a  starved  wolf  gets  in  the  spring  and 
as  little  particular  of  the  carrion  he  gnaws. 

"  Plenty  of  young  ones  get  the  monte  or  the 
poker  bee  and  just  blow  up  duplicating  their  pay 
accounts  to  try  to  win  back  their  losses;  lots  of 
them  set  their  traps  to  snare  all  the  rot-gut  whisky 
the  sutler  can  get  hauled  out  from  the  Missouri, 
and  wind  up  losing  their  shoulder  straps. 

"  But  even  such  I've  known  to  steady  down  to 
an  honest  man's  gait,  and  keep  it.  Just  let  an 
officer  desert  once,  though,  boys,  and  you  can  take 
Kit's  word  a  brand  new  outlaw  is  ranging  the 
country  that  will  never  quit  till  he  is  planted. 

"  It  was  back  in  the  fifties  we  had  in  the  Sec 
ond  Dragoons  a  specimen  of  this  sort  that  shone 
like  a  new  Hawkins  rifle,  a  West  Pointer,  too. 

"  At  that  time  the  Second  was  serving  at  Fort 
Union.  I  was  the  scout  and  guide  of  the  post. 
A  cleaner,  straighter  youngster  one  could  not  ask 

to  meet  than  Second  Lieutenant  ,  assigned 

to  troop  B.  But  from  the  start  he  had  his  trou 
bles.  B  Troop  was  made  up  of  the  human  refuse 
of  the  overland  Independence-Santa  Fe  trail. 

"  All  kinds  came  or  got  pushed  along  that  old 
trail;  and  while  few  hit  it  in  those  days  that  were 
not  as  full  of  fight  as  a  trapped  grizzly,  a  plenty 
there  were  whose  only  idea  of  hard  work  was  a 


i34  THE  VANGUARD 

slick  sneak  of  somebody  else's  horses,  dust  or 
goods. 

"  Courts  weren't  thick  in  those  times,  of  course, 
but  Judge  Lynch  and  his  posses  soon  put  the  bad 
ones  of  the  new  camps  on  the  run.  Many  a  one 
found  temporary  asylum  in  the  army,  shifting  base 
and  enlisting  at  distant  posts.  And  it  was  a  lot 
of  such  thieves  and  hold-ups  that  our  young 
lieutenant  got  assigned  to  the  junior  command 
of. 

"  The  discipline  of  the  frontier  forces  was 
pretty  loose  —  rightly  enough,  too.  Drill  didn't 
help  much  in  the  rough  work  against  Indians,  and 
the  older  officers  realised  it. 

"  But  our  lieutenant,  fresh  from  the  regula 
tions  and  iron-clad  rules  of  West  Point,  came  near 
going  plumb  loony  in  his  effort  to  whip  his  un 
kempt,  slouching,  drunken  and  disorderly  troop 
into  proper  regulars. 

"  He  was  at  them  morning,  noon  and  evening, 
drilling  and  marching,  until  he  had  them  near 
ready  to  break  out  into  open  mutiny. 

"  *  Dandy '  and  *  Toy  Soldier  '  were  about  the 
only  names  they  had  for  him  that  I  care  to  men 
tion.  But,  curiously,  in  time  the  men  dropped 
into  the  spirit  of  the  work  themselves  —  sorta 
got  stuck,  I  reckon,  on  the  superiority  of  their 
drill  over  all  the  other  companies  at  the  post  — 
until  most  of  them  were  about  ready  to  eat  out  of 
his  hand. 

"  Just  about  then,  however,  when  he  must  have 
been  thinking  his  troubles  were  double-quicking  to 


THE  DESERTER  135- 

the  rear,  he  got  it  good  and  hard  from  an  unex 
pected  quarter. 

"  Every  week  his  own  troop  had  been  growing 
smarter  and  smarter,  and  the  other  soldiers,  jeal 
ous  perhaps,  or  fearing  the  example  was  likely  to 
start  their  troop  officers  making  them  pound  the 
parade  ground  on  all-day  drills,  got  to  cursing 
him  worse  than  his  own  men  had. 

"  They  managed  at  last  to  lash  themselves  into 
such  bitter  hatred  of  him  that  it  only  needed  a 
chance  to  show  itself  openly  in  some  raw  form. 

"  And  that  chance  came  when,  one  night,  a  de 
tachment  of  one  of  the  other  troops  which  had 
been  off  on  a  scout  returned  to  the  post,  tired, 
dry,  and  out  of  humour.  Before  mess  call  they 
had  succeeded  in  tanking  up  to  a  point  that  ought 
to  have  satisfied  them,  for  it  didn't  take  many 
slugs  of  that  sutler's  whisky  to  put  a  soldier  in 
the  disposition  to  slit  the  throat  of  his  own  daddy, 
mad  as  a  snake-dancing  Zuni  medicine  man.  But 
that  night  what  they  had  seemed  to  just  give  them, 
a  good  running  start. 

"  Taps  sounded,  and  regulations  called  for 
everybody  in  barracks  and  all  lights  out.  Shortly 
after  taps,  therefore,  our  young  lieutenant,  who 
happened  to  be  the  officer  of  the  day,  was  out 
raged  to  see  a  trooper  entering  the  sutler's  store. 
Following  the  man  in,  he  found  an  old  dragoon 
of  one  of  the  other  companies  urging  the  sutler 
to  sell  him  several  bottles  of  whisky. 

"  Promptly  the  lieutenant  ordered  the  man  to 
his  barrack,  in  arrest.  Instead  of  obeying,  how- 


136  THE  VANGUARD 

ever,  the  man  drew  his  pistol,  covered  the  lieu 
tenant  and  insolently  growled : 

"  '  Here's  where  we  get  our  whisky  or  you 
get  what's  been  a  long  time  overdue  coming  to 
you,  you  d — d  little  brass  mounted  imitation  of 
a  real  sure  enough  dragoon!  Been  laying  for  a 
chance  like  this,  several  of  us.  Now  you  just 
cut  yourself  loose  and  see  if  you  can  make  me  go 
to  barracks !  * 

"  Pale  with  rage,  the  youngster  drew  his  sabre 
and  thrust  savagely  at  the  man;  but  the  wily  old 
dragoon  deftly  parried  the  thrust,  and  snapped 
his  pistol  in  the  lieutenant's  face. 

"  Three  times  the  plucky  little  terrier  so  jabbed 
at  the  mutineer,  was  parried,  and  remained  with 
his  pelt  unpunctured  only  because  the  pistol  con 
tinued  to  hang  fire.  The  fourth  try  got  him, 
though;  at  the  boom  of  the  old  pistol,  he  dropped. 

"  Luckily  for  the  youngster,  I  was  just  en 
tering  the  door  of  the  room  they  were  in,  and 
jumped  on  the  soldier  and  disarmed  him  as  he  was 
bending  to  finish  the  job  with  the  butt. 

"  The  lieutenant  we  found  unconscious,  his  face 
streaming  with  blood.  The  bullet  had  ploughed 
a  crease  through  and  across  his  scalp  that  made 
him  look  like  the  whole  top  of  his  head  was  gone. 
Just  as  a  matter  of  form,  we  packed  him  over  to 
the  hospital  tent,  where,  after  an  examination,  the 
surgeon  allowed  he  was  dead. 

"  No  time  was  lost.  Quickly  a  court-martial 
was  organised  and  the  man  was  placed  on  trial. 
The  questioning  of  a  couple  of  witnesses,  the  sutler 


THE  DESERTER  137 

and  his  clerk,  did  the  trick,  for  of  course  there 
was  no  defence:  the  man  was  condemned  to  be 
shot  forthwith. 

"  Weirdest  execution  I  ever  heard  tell  of,  was 
that  one.  Notwithstanding  it  was  past  midnight 
when  his  court-martial  was  finished  the  *  Assem 
bly  '  was  sounded,  the  entire  garrison  turned  out 
and  formed. 

"  Horse  and  foot  were  drawn  up  at  parade  rest, 
the  cavalry  on  two  sides  of  a  hollow  square,  the 
infantry  on  a  third  side,  and  the  condemned  was 
placed  midway  of  the  square,  facing  the  infantry. 

"  Two  big  fires,  fed  with  fat  pine  knots,  lighted 
the  three  long  lines  of  serious  faces,  those  of  the 
youngster's  own  dragoons  fierce-eyed  as  cornered 
pumas,  faces  blazing  with  resentment,  every  last 
man  of  them  looking  liable  any  minute  to  take  a 
whack  at  his  slayer. 

'  The  other  troops,  that  had  been  cursing  him, 
seemed  to  be  studying  mighty  hard  over  the  fix 
their  partner  had  shot  himself  into. 

"  A  firing  squad  of  his  own  dragoon  comrades 
was  lined  up  in  front  of  the  prisoner. 

H'  While  they  were  marching  into  position,  the 
surgeon's  orderly  came  running  from  the  hospital 
tent  hollering  for  a  stay  of  the  execution,  but  the 
wind  was  howling  down  the  Pecos  Valley  out  of 
the  north,  like  it  was  in  one  hell  of  a  hurry  to  get 
to  the  Gulf,  and  none  of  us  heard  him  until  it  was 
too  late. 

"  But  barely  had  the  ordered  fire  sputtered 
feebly  in  the  roaring  gale,  and  the  prisoner  fallen 


i38  THE  VANGUARD 

with  five  bullets  in  him,  than  the  orderly  reached 
the  major's  side  with  advice  from  the  surgeon 
that  the  youngster's  skull  was  no  more  than 
creased,  and  that  he  would  recover ! 

"  D — d  bad  mess,  of  course,  but  it  could  not  be 
helped. 

"  When  he  got  up  and  about,  the  lieutenant 
mighty  near  threw  cat  fits  over  the  affair;  said  he 
had  been  too  hasty,  ought  to  have  called  the  ser 
geant  of  the  guard,  which  he  had;  talked  of  resign 
ing,  which  it's  a  pity  he  didn't.  Older  officers 
didn't  blame  him  much,  though,  for  the  offence 
was  of  the  grossest  and  his  life  was  threatened. 

"  Shortly  he  got  so  morose  and  brooding  that, 
I  reckon,  the  major  allowed  it  would  do  him  good 
to  get  out  and  have  a  whack  at  the  Navajos,  for 
he  ordered  him  to  take  his  troop  and  patrol  the 
road  north  beyond  Puerta  de  Luna,  as  far  as  the 
Canon  de  los  Enterros. 

"  So  out  and  on  up  the  Pecos  he  marched,  scouts 
well  ahead  and  off  on  each  flank,  trying  to  spot 
some  war  party  he  could  surprise  and  cut  up.  But 
nothing  showed  up.  The  lower  road  was  de 
serted,  both  of  travel  and  of  the  human  wolves 
that  usually  lurked  along  it. 

"  Up  Enterros,  though,  the  Navajos  turned  the 
tables  on  his  plans.  There  a  war  party  of  four 
hundred  lay  hidden  up  a  deep  side  gulch  out  of 
sight  of  his  scouts,  and  when  he  turned  the  point 
of  that  gulch  down  they  came  on  him,  hell-a-tatilt, 
no  more  than  three  hundred  yards  distant  when 
they  were  first  sighted. 


THE  DESERTER  139 

u  The  little  teniente's  troop  only  numbered 
ninety  men,  but  he  was  game;  returned  the  com 
pliment,  galloped  straight  through  the  bunch  in 
solid  column  of  fours,  scattering  them  like  quail 
dodging  a  hawk.  It  was  pistols  and  sabres  against 
lances  and  muzzle-loaders,  or  those  dragoons,  to 
the  last  man  of  them,  would  have  been  turned  into 
crow  meat  that  morning. 

"  For  the  surprise  handed  them  by  a  little  bunch 
they  allowed  to  eat  up  the  first  clatter,  the  Navajos 
put  up  a  great  fight.  They  rallied,  and  that  by 
the  time  the  youngster  could  wheel,  reform  and 
smash  back  at  them. 

"  Twice  he  so  split  them  apart,  like  an  axe  splits 
a  backbone,  leaving  many  a  struggling  pony  and 
writhing  buck  flopping  on  the  ground,  like  a  turkey 
you've  nipped  the  head  from  with  your  '  Haw 
kins.' 

"  But  the  fourth  round,  the  little  lieutenant 
tumbled  out  of  the  saddle  with  four  bullets  through 
him. 

"  Quick  as  they  could  his  men  sought  to  rally 
round  him,  but  he  only  called  up  to  them : 

"  *  Back  at  'em,  boys,  don't  mind  me;  back  at 
'em !  '  he  yelled.  *  Hold  the  field  and  save  your 
wounded ! ' 

"  Pretty  little  pack  of  ravening  wolves  that  talk 
turned  them  into,  and  at  it  again  they  pelted, 
sabres  shearing  lances  and  gnawing  bones  with  a 
hearty  hunger  that  soon  had  the  befeathered 
devils  on  the  run  and  left  the  wreck  of  the 
dragoon  troop  victors. 


1 40  THE  VANGUARD 

"  About  a  third  of  the  men  were  down,  but  the 
two-thirds  left,  I  reckon,  must  have  looked  like  a 
regiment  to  the  Navajos. 

"  Three  months  later  when  the  lieutenant  re 
covered  sufficiently  to  resume  his  lighter  duties, 
one  evening  before  parade  his  men  lined  up  at 
'  attention,'  himself,  pale  and  weak,  leaning  heavily 
on  a  crutch,  he  addressed  them: 

"  l  Men,  I  have  heard  you  called  every  bad 
name  a  reckless  man  could  lay  his  tongue  to,  and 
I  suppose  I'll  have  to  admit  I  have  called  you  a 
few  myself,  but  if  after  this  anybody  calls  you 
cowards  in  my  hearing,  he  will  have  me  to  fight, 
for  I  know  you  to  be  as  brave  a  lot  as  ever  drew 
sabre.' 

"  Forgetting  discipline,  one  of  the  troopers 
shouted :  *  Three  cheers  for  our  little  game-cock, 
and  it's  up  against  the  devil  himself  we'll  follow 
him !  '  And  wildly  the  troopers  cheered,  and 
cheered  again. 

"  And  it  was  most  sadly  this  vow  of  his 
troopers  soon  came  to  be  fulfilled,  all  too  literally. 

Had  Captain ,  for  shortly  he  was  promoted 

to  captain  for  the  Enterros  affair,  stuck  to  his 
trapping,  he'd  be  with  us  in  the  service  to-day 
high  in  command  —  a  brigade  at  least,  if  not  an 
army  corps. 

"  What  came  over  him,  God  alone  knows. 
Probably  it  was  the  injury  to  his  head  that  night 
at  the  sutler's  store.  Anyway,  we  all  liked  to 
think  so  —  and  it  would  not  have  been  healthy 
for  any  outsider  to  suggest  anything  else. 


THE  DESERTER  141 

"  At  all  events  the  fact  is  that  from  week  to 
week  he  grew  more  sullen  and  morose,  drank  deep 
all  by  his  lonesome,  stuck  close  to  his  quarters  and 
met  with  scant  courtesy  and  never  with  cordiality 
such  of  his  brother  officers  as  called  on  him  and 
tried  to  cheer  and  brace  him  up. 

"  Looked  like  he  just  naturally  went  bad  all 
through  —  got  a  '  bad  heart/  like  a  Navajo  buck 
gets  now  and  then,  and  has  to  turn  out  by  his 
lonesome,  if  none  will  follow  him,  and  plunder 
and  kill. 

"  Finally,  I  reckon,  it  hit  him  so  hard  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  for  he  went  in  and  got  per 
mission  of  his  commanding  officer  to  take  his 
troop  on  a  two  weeks'  scout  to  the  west  of  the  post. 
Evidently,  it  appeared  later,  he  had  schemed  out 
the  extra  long  scout  on  purpose  to  get  to  draw  a 
heavy  supply  of  rations  and  ammunition  to  make 
his  jump  on. 

"  Whether  he  had  taken  his  men  into  his  con 
fidence  remained  only  a  matter  of  guess  work, 
of  course,  but  I  am  myself  thinking  he  did  not 
spring  his  scheme  on  them  until  he  had  them  out 
in  the  field  —  too  much  danger  some  of  them 
would  get  drunk  and  let  it  out. 

"  The  two  weeks  of  his  detail  passed,  and  then 
another  week,  but  no  word  came  of  him.  Then 
we  all  concluded  he  must  have  been  wiped  out, 
and  the  commanding  officer  sent  out  a  search 
party. 

"  And  it  was  a  strange  tale  we  found  hard  to 
credit  they  brought  back;  that  they  had  followed 


i42  THE  VANGUARD 

his  trail  to  a  little  spring  well  to  the  north  of  El 
Capitan,  a  straight  jump  without  a  stop  that  must 
have  kept  them  humping  a  full  day  and  night. 

'*  Thence  his  sign  bore  up  above  the  old  Gran 
Quivera  ruins,  headed  on  a  bee  line  for  the  Rio 
Grande,  where  it  would  strike  the  stage  road  mid 
way  between  Valverde  and  Santa  Fe,  and  along  it 
they  followed  him  for  fourteen  hours  without  any 
show  of  a  halt,  when  the  leader  decided  to  return 
and  report  to  Fort  Union. 

"  It  was  incredible,  but  either  the  man  had  gone 
mad  as  a  sun  dancer  or  else  had  deliberately 
deserted.  There  was  no  other  explanation.  So 
after  three  weeks  of  uncertainty  as  to  which  it 
might  be,  we  were  not  so  greatly  surprised  when 
a  mail  from  Santa  Fe  brought  news  that  Captain 

,  with  his  entire  troop  of  dragoons,  had  turned 

bandit ! 

"  They  had  been  shooting  up  Mexican  placitas 
in  the  valley  and  levying  prestamos  on  their  mer 
chants,  holding  up  stagecoaches  for  money  and 
valuables  and  conductas  of  freight  for  food  and 
supplies ;  cruel,  pitiless,  insatiable,  sparing  none. 

"  Long  after  we  heard  that  his  band,  constantly 
harried  and  hunted,  dwindled  rapidly,  but  that 
with  the  remnant  he  went  on  scourging  into  the 
north,  swinging  to  the  west  of  Santa  Fe  and  on 
through  Taos  and  the  San  Luis  Valley.  In  the 
wilds  of  the  mountainous  region,  about  the  head 
of  the  South  Platte,  he  found  refuge  when  not 
raiding  the  rush  of  gold  seekers  then  pouring  into 
California  Gulch. 


THE  DESERTER  143 

"  Ultimately,  he  was  captured,  of  course. 
Jailed  in  a  little  Colorado  camp  called  Rosita,  soon 
the  local  vigilantes  took  his  pelt  and  hung  it  up  to 
dry,  but  were  so  careless  in  their  work  that  the 
pelt  retained  little  value. 

"  His  crimes  were  so  atrocious  and  he  was  so 
bitterly  hated  that  hanging  was  held  to  be  too 
merciful,  and  the  vigilantes  made  him  run  the 
gantlet,  to  be  hacked  and  shot  till  he  fell. 

"  While  ranging  the  trails  and  holding  up 
coaches,  it  had  been  his  practice  to  blacken  his  face, 
like  an  Indian  brave  blackens  his  when  his  heart 
gets  l  bad  '  and  he  goes  out  to  kill,  which  won  for 
him  the  epitaph :  '  He  came  into  the  world  white, 
but  left  it  as  black  of  face  as  of  character.'  All 
of  which  goes  to  show  you,  boys,  what  a  mighty 
poor  paying  job  deserting  is." 

Threw  a  bigger  chill  into  us,  did  old  Kit,  than 
a  north  wind  whipping  down  through  the  pines 
from  the  top  of  El  Capitan. 

To  be  sure,  there  were  mighty  few  in  our  col 
umn  not  in  it  for  the  love  of  the  game,  few  with 
any  more  disposition  to  quit  it  than  a  lad  loco  over 
his  first  girl. 

But  discipline  had  been  eating  saddle  galls  into 
some  of  us,  and  Kit's  yarn  sorta  buffaloed  us  and 
set  us  toeing  the  mark  better,  until  Christmas, 
when  A  Troop  came  near  marching  into  arrest 
in  a  body. 

In  practice,  if  not  by  nature,  a  sutler  is  a  skin 
flint  no  soldier  loves,  and  no  chance  to  even  things 
with  him  goes  long  neglected. 


144  THE  VANGUARD 

Then,  besides,  it  needed  all  the  combined  re 
sources  of  our  ingenuity  to  contrive  a  feed  that 
would  be  likely  to  beguile  one  into  a  suspicion  that 
it  was  a  stagger  at  a  Christmas  dinner.  It  must 
be  a  departure  from  the  monotony  of  regulation 
rations,  of  which  we  had  grown  ghastly  tired  — 
hardtack  and  bacon  and  meagre  issues  of  beef. 

To  be  sure  the  hills  were  full  of  deer  and  wild 
turkey,  but  we  were  not  allowed  to  go  out  after 
them,  for  that  the  Navajo  hunters  were  constantly 
prowling  about  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  it 
was  the  exception  for  one  of  our  wood  parties 
to  return  without  casualties. 

And  besides,  a  fortnight  earlier,  two  A  Troop 
men,  John  Hinkley  and  Justice  Wagoner,  had 
been  killed  at  Guiana  Springs,  while  carrying  des 
patches  to  Santa  Fe,  and  the  quartermaster's 
mule  herd  had  disappeared  for  good  behind  a 
yelling  line  of  blanket-swinging  Navajos. 

Thus  the  company  heart  was  overflowing  with 
joy  and  the  company  mouth  with  jest  when  the 
company  wag  and  wiseacre  divulged  a  plan  to 
garnish  our  Christmas  dinner  with  a  delicacy  to  be 
foraged  from  the  sutler's  preserves. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  been  fattening  a  lot 
of  pigs,  on  corn  we  well  knew  to  be  filched  from 
the  quartermaster's  stores,  with  what  connivance 
does  not  matter  but  at  all  events  to  the  robbery 
of  full  rations  for  our  mounts. 

So  it  seemed  to  the  moralists  of  the  company 
that  we  would  be  doing  Uncle  Sam  a  service  if  we 
should  contrive  to  turn  to  the  benefit  of  his  sol- 


THE  DESERTER  145 

diers  what  had  been  intended  for  but  robbed  from 
his  troop  horses. 

Just  how  it  happened  I  cannot  say,  for  company 
ways  are  always  dark  and  mysterious,  but  the 
facts  are  that  six  fine  shoats  were  roasting  in  our 
Dutch  ovens  on  Christmas  Day  before  the  sutler 
discovered  his  loss  and  traced  it  to  the  camp-fires 
of  A  Troop. 

Jolting  himself  every  jump  with  a  new  explo 
sion  of  lurid  expletives,  the  sutler  flew  to  the 
quarters  of  the  commanding  officer.  But  when 
presently  the  Major  approached,  accompanied  by 
our  company  officers  and  the  dancing  sutler,  the 
pig  meat  had  been  transferred  to  mess  pans  and 
shoved  into  the  homo,  a  big  permanent  bread  oven 
we  had  copied  from  the  Mexicans,  where  it  con 
tinued  steadily  cooking,  while  the  Dutch  ovens  on 
our  camp-fires  had  been  refilled  with  beef. 

"  What's  the  Christmas  dinner  cooking,  Ser 
geant?  "  asked  the  Major. 

"  Beef,  sir,"  replied  our  orderly  sergeant. 

"  But,  Sergeant,"  the  Major  said,  u  the  sutler 
has  come  to  me  with  a  charge  of  theft  against  A 
Troop;  says  you've  been  stealing  his  pigs." 

"  Can't  be,  sir,"  our  good  old  sergeant  bluffed. 
"  Shall  I  have  the  quarters  searched,  sir?" 

"  But  the  sutler  says  the  pigs  are  now  roasting 
on  your  fires;  lift  the  lids  of  those  pots,  Sergeant," 
sternly  ordered  the  Major. 

The  lids  were  duly  lifted,  one  after  another,  and 
while  he  tried  to  look  severe,  the  Major  was  chok 
ing  with  laughter  as  he  queried: 


i46  THE  VANGUARD 

"  Sutler,  does  that  thin-clad  bunch  of  beef  bones 
look  to  you  like  fat  pig?  That  new  lot  of  whisky 
your  wagon  train  brought  in  this  morning  —  well, 
is  it  going  to  be  safe  stuff  for  my  boys  to  drink 
if  it's  knocked  you  cross-eyed  like  this  already?  " 

Then  our  captain  chipped  in  about  the  outrage 
it  was  to  lay  a  charge  of  robbery  against  as  fine 
a  lot  of  men  as  his,  and  dropped  a  hint  he  was 
likely  to  take  it  as  personal  to  himself.  The 
result  was  very  satisfactory  all  round,  except  to 
the  sutler. 

Thus  at  their  Christmas  dinner  that  day  both 
officers  and  men  joyously  feasted  on  roast  pig. 


—  VIII  — 

THE   BORDER   RUFFIANS 

1  DOUBT  if  there  is  still  living  a  survivor  of 
our  old  California  Gold  Brigade  who  does 
not  feel  indebted  to  the  Fort  Stanton 
sutler  whose  pigs  wandered  into  our 
Christmas  bake  ovens. 

If  he  does  not  feel  so,  he  certainly  ought  to, 
and  is  an  ingrate  if  he  don't  —  for  come  New 
Year's  it  got  to  be  more  than  pork  we  owed  him 
for,  and  if  in  the  way  of  pay  he  ever  received  any 
thing  more  tangible  to  stack  up  and  count  than 
experience,  I  never  heard  of  it. 

In  fact,  I'm  willing  to  bet  that  our  1864  New 
Year's  Day  is  the  longest  New  Year's  Day  on 
record.  It  lasted  a  week  without  a  let-up,  and  if 
anybody  can  substantiate  the  beating  of  it,  he  can 
break  me. 

Of  course  a  week  is  going  some  in  holidays,  I 
admit,  and  yet  it  came  about  simply  and  naturally- 
enough;  don't  quite  see  how,  under  the  circum 
stances,  anything  could  have  stopped  it.  Any 
how,  our  officers  couldn't. 

Probably  our  major  was  more  directly  respon 
sible  for  it  than  any  one  else,  although  if  he  had 
himself  realised  it  I  believe  he  would  have  ordered 

147 


148  THE  VANGUARD 

himself  into  arrest  for  the  remainder  of  his  natural 
life. 

Got  us  pretty  thirsty,  did  the  major,  when,  on 
Christmas  Day,  he  told  the  sutler  it  must  be  an, 
overdose  of  his  new  consignment  of  whisky  that 
had  made  him  mistake  beef  for  pork;  a  hint  that 
it  must  be  full  strength  and  a  reminder  that  he 
had  what  looked  like  an  everlasting  lot  of  it. 

Especially  when,  after  warehousing  his  boxed 
merchandise,  the  sutler  found  he  had  no  storeroom 
left  for  the  whisky,  and  as  the  only  possible  alter 
native  for  its  protection,  grouped  the  ten  barrels 
in  front  of  his  store,  and  atop  of  them  laid  some 
planks  on  which,  at  night,  he  spread  his  blankets. 

So  on  guard  over  the  barrels  the  sutler  slept  in 
security  until  New  Year's  Eve,  for  a  successful 
manoeuvre  to  part  him  from  his  barrels  took  some 
planning.  However,  during  the  week  some  of 
the  boys  (I  am  not  saying  who,  even  if  it  did 
happen  nearly  a  half  century  ago)  managed  to 
sneak  some  chloroform  from  the  hospital  stores. 

And  it  was  by  a  judicious  application  of  the 
chloroform  that  the  sutler  was  spared  the  physi 
cal  pain  of  a  tumble  off  his  lofty  bed  and  the 
mental  distress  of  realising  that  his  spirits  were 
being  borne  beyond  his  ken  —  if  not  on  wings, 
at  least  on  moccasined  feet  more  noiseless  still 
than  wings. 

No  bones  were  broken,  as  far  as  observed, 
when,  after  sneaking  his  pistol  from  beneath  his 
head,  the  boys  rolled  him  off  his  spirituous  perch, 
but  to  make  sure  he  should  not  suffer  any,  again  he 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         149 

was  well  soused  with  the  forget-your-troubles 
water. 

And  this  piece  of  disinterested  charity  happened 
to  prove  no  special  hindrance  to  the  boys  in  their 
self-assumed  task  of  decanting  the  barrels  and  ef 
fectively  disposing  of  both  them  and  their  con 
tents. 

The  staves  made  a  bonfire  that  must  have  made 
the  Navajos  think  we  were  sending  up  the  biggest 
distress  signal  fire  was  ever  touched  to ;  the  hoops, 
cooled  by  a  bucket  brigade  thoughtfully  organ 
ised  in  advance,  were  hidden  in  the  foliage  of  a 
giant  pine  a  mile  from  the  post. 

The  contents  of  the  barrels?  Well,  what  re 
mained  after  every  last  non-com  and  private  had 
laboured  faithfully  to  stow  all  of  it  he  could  where 
by  no  chance  it  could  occasion  the  sutler  further 
anxiety,  served  to  fill  every  available  receptacle 
for  either  liquids  or  solids,  except  the  saddle  bags 
(which  it  was  the  general  opinion  would  not  be 
faithful  to  such  a  trust),  and  no  pair  of  boots  in 
the  entire  camp  stood  empty  that  night  beside 
whatever  section  of  the  parade  ground  their  own 
ers  reposed  on. 

The  next  morning,  bitterly  cold  as  the  deal  that 
had  been  handed  the  sutler,  the  few  who  had  re 
covered  consciousness  sufficiently  to  entertain  lucid 
views  on  the  subject  were  making  even  bets  on 
which  of  the  two  was  the  madder,  the  sutler  who 
had  lost  his  whisky  or  the  major  who  had  quite 
as  effectively,  for  the  time  being,  lost  all  control 
of  his  men. 


150  THE  VANGUARD 

The  major's  loss  ran  farther,  and  harder  from 
his  point  of  view,  although  this  feature  salved  the 
raw  sore  of  the  sutler's  sense  of  injury;  more  men 
than  I  like  now  to  think  of,  among  them  good 
comrades  and  true,  never  again  answered  roll  call 
again,  found  marble-white  and  still  as  the  snow 
that  had  frozen  and  shrouded  them. 

Arrests?     Court  martial? 

How  could  there  be  where  all  alike  were  cul 
prits,  and  not  a  single  non-com,  much  less  a  cor 
poral's  guard,  left  fit  for  duty? 

Then,  besides,  of  the  theft  there  was  not  the 
least  figment  of  proof  to  fix  it  upon  any  one;  for 
while  of  course  everything  in  camp  was  full  of 
whisky,  the  men  and  all  other  practicable  recep 
tacles  that  could  be  depended  upon  not  to  waste 
it,  the  barrels  —  well,  it  was  search  the  zenith 
for  the  smoke  of  the  staves  of  them,  or  ask  the 
snow  birds  that  nest  among  the  pine  boughs  that 
hid  their  hoops. 

Naturally,  the  officers  confiscated  and  spilled  all 
the  whisky  they  could  find;  but  at  the  start  there 
had  been  ten  generous  barrels  of  the  lot,  so  that  it 
was  for  the  officers,  "  guess  again;  you  didn't  get 
it  all."  Which  is  why  our  New  Year's  Day  lasted 
a  whole  week. 

Relieved  by  some  companies  of  New  Mexico 
troops,  the  early  spring  of  1864  found  us  on  the 
march  down  Lost  River,  past  the  White  Sands 
and  over  San  Augustine  Pass  to  the  cantonment  at 
Mesilla.  There  we  loaded  with  quartermaster 
and  commissary  supplies  and  proceeded  on  west  to 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         151 

the  Gila,  where  we  had  been  ordered  to  establish 
a  new  post. 

Arriving  in  May,  we  cut  timber,  made  adobe 
bricks  and  built  Fort  Goodwin,  near  where  Fort 
Thomas  was  later  established. 

The  upper  San  Carlos  River,  then  for  genera 
tions  past  and  for  many  years  since,  was  the 
favourite  retreat  of  the  Apaches,  their  best  loved 
home  camp  where  their  women  and  children 
planted  and  tilled  such  simple  crops  as  they 
sought  to  raise,  chiefly  corn  and  chili.  And 
it  was  to  dominate  and  check  them,  or  push  them 
out,  exiles  on  the  move,  that  we  were  ordered 
there. 

But  it  was  little  enough  we  accomplished,  al 
though  detachments  were  out  constantly.  Over 
take  and  strike  any  body  of  them  we  could  not. 

They  retired  into  rugged  fastnesses  of  the 
higher  range  where  horses  could  not  travel,  and 
no  dismounted  troops  could  get  within  range  of 
them  except  when  they  had  an  ambush  laid  that 
usually  won  toll  of  us. 

They  could  outfoot  anything  but  a  mountain 
goat,  and  could  make  even  a  goat  rattle  his  hocks. 

Our  only  chance  of  doing  much  good  lay  in 
getting  into  communication  with  them  and  trying 
to  arrange  a  treaty  of  peace.  But  for  this  no  op 
portunity  offered  until,  one  day,  ten  of  the  Apaches 
came  into  camp,  seven  bucks,  two  squaws  and  a 
Mexican  woman  they  had  long  held  captive. 

A  new  officer  then  commanded  us,  a  Major 
B ,  recently  come  out  from  the  East;  and  he, 


152  THE  VANGUARD 

after  placing  the  others  under  guard,  ordered  the 
Mexican  woman  to  return  to  their  chief  and  urge 
him  to  come  in  for  a  council.  The  woman  pro 
tested  she  would  be  certain  to  be  killed  if  she 
carried  any  such  message,  but  the  major  told  her 
she  could  secure  her  safety  by  assuring  the  chief 
that  if  harm  came  to  her  he  would  hang  the  nine 
prisoners  he  then  held. 

Out  she  started,  with  the  greatest  reluctance; 
and  she  had  gone  barely  two  hundred  yards  away, 
lost  to  sight  among  the  pines,  when  he  had  proof 
not  only  that  she  was  right  but  that  the  Indians 
must  have  been  scouting  the  very  edge  of  our 
camp. 

A  frenzied  shriek  brought  out  a  detail  of  us  at 
the  double  quick.  We  found  her  speared  and 
dying. 

And  when,  a  week  later,  I  was  ordered  from 
the  San  Carlos  camp  back  to  Fort  Goodwin,  the 
nine  gaunt  hostages  were  still  dangling  among  the 
shadows  where  she  fell. 

In  the  autumn  of  1864  we  were  marched  back 
to  Mesilla,  and  there  discharged. 

Our  enlistment  finished,  Cox  and  I  drifted  to 
gether  again.  Dangerous  as  a  running  mate 
though  he  was,  I  could  not  resist  a  fondness  for 
him,  a  fascination  that  warped  whatever  judgment 
I  had,  for  as  a  fearless  and  reckless  but  always 
cool  and  carefully  calculating  fighter,  he  made  the 
gun  experts  of  that  rough  frontier  look  like  pikers. 
And,  moreover,  to  me  he  was  never  anything  but 
kind  and  helpful. 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         153 

We  had  plenty  of  money,  and  for  some  time 
ranged  through  the  placltas  of  the  Rio  Grande 
valley,  loafing  a  lot,  gambling  a  little,  enjoying  our 
release  from  the  galling  routine  of  post  and  camp 
discipline. 

And  as  to  gambling,  of  course  Cox,  past  master 
of  all  games  of  chance  then  known  and  dealt  in 
the  West,  could  never  get  his  own  consent  to 
lose  an  opportunity  to  throw  a  monte  card  or 
do  a  one-handed  shuffle  of  a  stack  of  poker 
chips. 

Nor  was  he  often  long  lacking  such  opportuni 
ties,  for  there  was  more  real  money  drifting  up 
and  down  the  valley  then  than  ever  since,  the 
product  of  Uncle  Sam's  disbursements  on  pay 
rolls  and  on  quartermaster's  certificates  for  forage 
and  food  supplies  bought  of  the  natives. 

Everybody  gambled.  And  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  there  was  probably  not  a  single  deck  in  the 
valley  which  was  not  so  crooked  that  not  one  of 
its  jacks  could  look  one  of  its  queens  straight  in 
the  face. 

So  it  was  always  keep  your  eyes  about  and 
shuffle  and  deal  your  smoothest  or  get  skinned 
forty  different  ways  from  the  ace. 

For  Cox,  at  a  gaming-table,  other  people's 
money  was  so  easy  that  when  he  caught  another 
trying  to  turn  the  tables  he  used  to  resent  it,  not 
as  a  threat  of  losing  money,  for  which  he  cared 
little,  but  as  an  insult  to  his  intelligence. 

Thus  it  was  no  surprise  to  me  that  trouble  was 
not  long  getting  busy  with  us.  It  happened  at  the 


154  THE  VANGUARD 

placita  of  Rincon,  below  Fort  Craig,  during  a 
"  bronco  baile." 

Cox  had  been  invited  to  open  a  monte  game, 
and  courteously  accepted.  For  some  time  the 
game  proceeded  without  unusual  incident.  That 
is  to  say,  Cox  won  steadily,  as  usual  with  him. 

Presently  Cox  saw  a  Mexican  covertly  slip  a 
monte  card  from  the  table,  and  amiably  suggested 
that  if  he  did  not  return  it  the  pack  would  be 
worthless.  The  only  reply  was  a  string  of  names 
which  cannot  be  translated  into  English. 

In  an  instant  the  two  men  were  flying  at  each 
other's  throat,  but  before  they  got  together  other 
Mexicans  grabbed  the  aggressor,  dragging  him 
out  of  the  jacal.  Seeing  which,  I  stowed  the  gun 
I  had  drawn  and  grabbed  Cox. 

As  the  Mexican  was  pushed  through  the  door 
way,  he  was  swearing  he  would  kill  Cox  the  next 
time  they  met.  Had  Cox  been  idle  at  the  time, 
the  affair  would  doubtless  have  been  ended  then 
and  there,  but  the  game  in  progress  was  not  a 
bad  one,  and  he  returned  to  it. 

A  fortnight  later  the  pair  of  us  landed  at  a 
similar  dance,  this  time  at  Paraje,  where  Cox  soon 
had  a  mob  around  his  monte  layout,  mostly  Mexi 
cans,  but  including  a  few  soldiers  from  the 
post. 

Midnight  came  and  passed.  The  soldiers  had 
withdrawn  in  a  body  and  returned  to  barracks, 
leaving  the  pair  of  us  alone  with  a  roomful  of 
Mexicans.  While  Cox  was  occupied  with  the 
game,  his  Rincon  enemy,  with  six  friends,  entered 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         155 

the  room  and  approached  the  table  before  we  rec 
ognised  them. 

Once  we  saw  who  they  were,  we  knew  it  was 
only  a  matter  of  seconds  before  trouble  would 
start.  And  in  the  instant  of  delay  before  the 
ball  opened,  an  amused  curiosity  took  possession 
of  me  to  see  how  easily  Cox  would  handle  that 
bunch  by  his  lonesome. 

So  I  decided  not  to  take  a  hand  until  he  really 
needed  it  or  one  of  the  gang  should  turn  on  me. 
But,  of  course,  I  was  not  scratching  my  head. 
My  off  hand  kept  loafing  pretty  close  to  my  gun. 

As  a  highly  finished  piece  of  workmanship  in 
producing  a  gun,  that  Mexican  was  entitled  to  be 
loaded  down  with  as  big  a  jag  of  medals  as  one 
man  can  tote,  for  he  got  the  drop  on  Cox,  the  only 
time  I  had  seen  or  heard  of  its  being  done  —  had 
his  pistol  out  and  stuck  in  Cox's  face  before  Cox 
could  bat  an  eyelid. 

Had  it  all  his  own  way  for  a  second.  But  right 
then  he  made  the  biggest  mistake  a  man  with  a 
gun  drawn  on  another  can  make.  He  began  to 
talk. 

If  he  had  only  stopped  to  study  a  jiffy  he  would 
have  realised  it  was  up  to  the  other  fellow  to  talk, 
not  to  him. 

"  Told  you  I  would  kill  you  on  si — "  he  began 
—  and  ended,  for  Cox  had  only  been  playing  him 
like  a  trout.  While  a  pistol  showed  in  his  belt 
scabbard,  which  had  fooled  the  Mexican,  another 
six-shooter  lay  upon  his  knees  as  he  sat  at  table  be 
hind  his  monte  layout. 


156  THE  VANGUARD 

With  the  second  pistol  he  sent  a  shot  through 
the  table  top  that  rudely  interrupted  and  perma 
nently  terminated  his  adversary's  remarks. 

As  the  others,  grouped  near  the  door,  vanished 
into  the  outer  darkness,  Cox  bounded  after  them. 
Outside  they  scattered  and  shelled  him  from  dif 
ferent  directions. 

But  that  did  not  matter  to  Cox.  Before  I  got 
to  him  he  had  four  more  down  for  keeps.  And  if 
just  at  that  moment  one  of  them  had  not  slipped 
up  on  his  rear  and  bashed  Cox's  head  in  with  a 
pistol  barrel,  I  firmly  believe  he  would  have  got 
them  all. 

That  was  where  I  went  into  momentary  action, 
and  to  the  best  of  my  recollection  none  of  the 
Rincon  gang  remained  on  his  legs  to  carry  home 
news  of  what  had  happened. 

I  impressed  a  few  of  the  natives  to  help  me 
pack  Cox  into  Fort  Craig,  although  he  seemed  to 
me  to  be  past  help.  There  the  surgeon  made  a 
successful  job  trepanning  his  skull,  and  set  his  left 
arm,  which  a  bullet  had  broken. 

Since  the  doctor  said  Cox  would  be  a  long  time 
getting  up  and  about  again,  I  drifted  down  to 
Mesilla. 

There  I  met  a  man  named  Jim  Patterson,  who 
was  organising  a  little  party  to  cross  the  Staked 
Plains  to  the  ranch  of  John  Chisholm,  on  the 
head  of  the  Concho,  not  far  from  where  San  An- 
gelo  now  stands.  His  scheme  was  to  buy  cattle 
from  Chisholm,  drive  them  out  to  the  Rio  Grande, 
and  sell  them  at  the  frontier  posts. 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         157 

Myself  and  five  old  comrades  of  A  Troop,  all 
of  whom  were  pretty  well  heeled  with  money, 
talked  it  over  and  decided  the  scheme  sounded 
good  to  us. 

News  of  Chisholm's  doings  had  for  some  time 
been  the  talk  of  the  border.  He  was  the  very 
first  of  the  Tejanos  (Texans),  who,  stranded  dol- 
larless  at  the  close  of  the  war,  awoke  to  the  vast 
wealth  afoot  and  swarming  ownerless  throughout 
southern  and  central  eastern  Texas  in  the  form 
of  unbranded  cattle.  These  were  the  increase  of 
the  big  open  range  herds  that  had  run  wild  and 
uncared  for  during  the  four  years  of  civil  strife. 
Chisholm  was  the  first  to  begin  mavericking  the 
thousands  that  later  made  him  the  cattle  king  of 
New  Mexico,  where  he  settled  on  the  Pecos 
River,  between  the  Felix  and  the  Hondo. 

Over  east  of  the  plains  cattle  were  still  worth 
next  to  nothing,  and  if  the  Comanches  or  Kicka- 
poos  did  not  get  us  the  chance  seemed  a  rare  one  to 
double  our  little  rolls  a  few  times. 

The  business  was  no  joke,  though,  for,  besides 
the  trouble  to  be  looked  for  along  the  Pecos  and 
beyond,  the  Mescaleros  were  ranging  all  through 
the  Diablos  and  the  Davis  Mountains. 

We  therefore  decided  to  go  pretty  strong,  and 
finished  by  starting  with  nineteen  men,  although 
nine  did  not  count  for  much,  as  they  were  Con 
federate  renegades  who  had  jumped  out  to  the 
frontier  to  escape  military  service. 

We  back-tracked  the  old  Indianola  trail,  the 
southern  branch  of  it,  down  the  valley  to  Fort 


158  THE  VANGUARD 

Quitman,  up  past  Sierra  Blanca  and  Eagle  Springs, 
through  the  Diablos  to  Comanche  Springs,  strik 
ing  the  Pecos  at  Horsehead  Crossing,  where  we 
had  to  tackle  the  ninety  mile  march  without  water 
necessary  to  reach  Mustang  Ponds,  at  the  head  of 
the  Concho. 

Our  journey  east  was  without  serious  incident 
other  than  the  hardships  to  be  expected  on  such 
terribly  long  marches  without  water. 

We  reached  the  Chisholm  ranch  in  safety,  and 
ultimately  contrived  to  make  a  fairly  reasonable 
bargain  with  its  hard-dickering  owner,  who  was 
to  become  notorious  as  the  most  shifty  cow-trader 
that  anybody  ever  tried  to  hold  to  an  agree 
ment. 

With  four  hundred  fine  young  steers  in  hand, 
we  started  west,  up  through  the  live  oaks  and 
rugged  cedar  brakes  that  line  the  upper  Concho, 
and  make  it  as  nasty  a  country  to  traverse  in  war 
times,  whether  whites  or  reds  are  out,  as  one  could 
persuade  himself  to  travel. 

And  it  was  right  in  there  near  the  head  of  the 
river  that  hell  began  popping  for  us  a  little  faster 
than  we  could  take  care  of  it. 

Below,  at  the  ranch,  Chisholm  had  warned  us 
to  look  out  for  a  big  bunch  of  bandits  who,  with 
out  much  trying,  had  contrived  to  earn  the  name 
of  Border  Ruffians,  led  by  a  Major  Bolen. 

Composed  of  the  worst  elements  the  break-up 
of  the  Confederacy  had  turned  loose  along  the 
western  frontier,  they  had  been  raiding  ranches, 
robbing  along  the  highways,  sparing  none,  but 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         159 

with  a  keen  preference  for  Yankees,  Chisholm  told 
us. 

At  the  time  Bolen  had  three  hundred  and  fifty 
followers,  a  force  irresistible  in  that  thinly  settled 
region,  and  so  strong  that  our  only  hope  of  get 
ting  through  safely  with  our  cattle  lay  in  the  off 
chance  their  scouts  might  miss  us. 

But  there  was  no  such  luck.  Winding  through 
some  open  glades  thickly  dotted  with  live  oaks, 
fire  opened  on  us  from  all  sides,  it  seemed. 

That  we  were  scattered  along  the  line  of  our 
travelling  herd  as  we  were,  was  probably  all  that 
saved  us.  Had  we  been  marching  in  a  body,  at 
least  half  of  us  would  have  gone  down  at  the  first 
fire. 

As  it  was,  one  man  was  killed  and  two  badly 
wounded;  and,  what  was  worse  from  the  view 
point  of  all  of  us  but  the  dead  and  wounded,  our 
wild  cattle  stampeded  in  every  direction. 

We  scarcely  had  time  even  to  note  in  which 
direction  our  dollars  were  racing  away  from  us  — 
never,  we  well  knew,  to  return. 

Cover  we  must  have,  and,  bunching  and  draw 
ing  our  pistols,  we  managed  to  shoot  our  way 
through  the  scattered  skirmish-line  on  the  north, 
and  to  win  up  into  the  cliffs;  and  there,  half-way 
up  to  the  summit,  we  did  hold  luck  enough  to  find 
some  big  cavelike  recesses  in  the  limestone,  a  shel 
ter  that  let  in  our  horses,  fairly  well  screened  in 
front  by  cedars. 

It  was  New  Year's  Day,  1865,  and  Major 
Bolen  and  his  bunch  made  it  their  business  to  turn 


160  THE  VANGUARD 

it  into  a  far  hotter  day  for  us  than  our  New 
Year's  Day  at  Fort  Stanton,  and,  in  a  back 
handed  way,  made  it  last  even  longer  than  its 
predecessor. 

Lord !  but  wouldn't  the  old  Fort  Stanton  sutler 
have  danced  himself  to  death  with  joy  of  our 
plight  if  he  could  have  looked  in  on  us  —  with 
the  Ruffians  creeping  along  under  cover  to  closer 
range  on  our  front,  getting  in  so  close  that  they 
might  easily  have  carried  us  by  a  charge  if  they 
had  had  the  nerve. 

Others  climbed  aloft  of  our  position,  rolling 
boulders  down  upon  us,  while  part  of  the  band 
rode  off  to  round  up  our  stampeded  cattle. 

There  we  were,  cleaned  out  of  all  our  property 
in  a  few  minutes,  and  mighty  near  bankrupt  as 
well  of  any  show  to  escape  with  our  lives. 

Although  the  fire  never  slackened  until  toward 
evening,  the  fact  Bolen  withheld  a  charge  con 
vinced  us  he  made  sure  of  starving  us  out  for 
water,  forcing  us  to  come  out  fighting  or  to  a 
surrender,  in  either  of  which  alternatives  he  would 
be  certain  to  get  our  arms,  all  he  could  expect  to 
get  off  a  bunch  that  had  just  blown  their  combined 
wad  buying  cattle. 

Of  course,  he  little  knew  us  if  he  thought  we 
might  be  driven  to  a  surrender.  If  the  worst  had 
come,  we  would  have  dashed  out,  shooting,  even 
though  the  odds  were  twenty  to  one  against  us. 

The  long  day  wore  on.  Now  and  then  one  of 
us  managed  to  wing  or  bore  one  of  the  Ruffians, 
without  further  casualty  on  our  side. 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         161 

Naturally  there  was  plenty  of  counselling  among 
us  as  the  fight  went  on.  Finally,  after  a  pow 
wow  among  themselves,  the  nine  renegades  pro 
posed  that,  since  they  themselves  were  Texans, 
they  should  go  down  under  a  white  flag  and  try 
to  make  a  treaty. 

We  had  no  objections,  for  we  had  found  them 
a  lot  of  curs.  In  fact,  they  did  not  fool  us  as  to 
their  real  motive,  which  was  that  their  surrender 
as  Texans  would  be  received,  their  lives  so  be 
saved,  and  we  might  then  shift  for  ourselves. 

So,  sure  of  getting  on  better  without  them,  by 
the  reduction  of  our  party  to  none  but  men  whom 
we  knew  would  scrap  as  long  as  they  could  pull  a 
trigger,  we  boosted  their  plan. 

At  the  first  flutter  of  their  white  flag,  fire 
stopped;  doubtless  they  thought  they  had  us. 
Then  down  into  Bolen's  lines  the  Texans  filed. 
But  within  half  an  hour  fire  on  our  position  broke 
out  again. 

Long  afterward  we  learned  why.  Learning 
the  true  character  of  the  renegades  after  a  short 
cross-examination,  Bolen  had  hanged  every  last 
mother's  son  of  them,  among  the  live  oaks,  for  the 
coyotes  they  were. 

Night  came.  We  redoubled  our  watchfulness, 
as  we  thought  it  likely  they  would  try  to  rush  us. 
But  apparently  they  were  playing  other  tactics, 
tempting  us  to  try  for  an  escape,  as  not  a  shot  was 
fired  after  night  fell,  although  there  could  be  no 
question  we  were  surrounded. 

Our  cattle  we  had  heard  them  rounding  up  and 


1 62  THE  VANGUARD 

bedding  down  alongside  of  their  camp  in  the  val 
ley  beneath  us,  and  through  the  early  evening  we 
could  faintly  hear  their  rude  jest  and  revelry  over 
their  day's  good  luck. 

But  just  in  the  grey  of  dawn  something  a  plenty 
redder  than  his  own  Ruffians  flew  up  and  struck 
Major  Bolen's  camp  hard  enough  to  satisfy  even 
us. 

A  small  band  of  Kickapoos,  with  wild  whoops 
and  waving  buffalo  robes,  ran  off  their  horses  and 
stampeded  and  chased  away  the  cattle,  while 
their  main  war  party  opened  and  maintained 
a  heavy  fire  on  the  startled  and  half-awakened 
looters. 

The  Indians  had  even  slipped  in  between  the 
camp  and  the  detail  surrounding  us,  evidently,  for 
shortly  we  heard  Bolen  yelling  for  them  to  charge 
down  and  take  their  enemy  in  the  rear. 

For  a  time  we  fancied  that  the  war-whoops  were 
counterfeits  and  the  summons  of  our  guards  a 
ruse  to  draw  us  out,  but  presently  the  heavy  fire 
satisfied  us  that  the  row  below  was  real  enough, 
and  that  it  offered  the  only  chance  we  were  likely 
to  get  of  an  escape. 

So  out  of  our  caves  we  led  our  mounts,  picked 
our  way  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge  and  along  it  to 
open  country,  and  then  mounted  and  hit  the  best 
pace  we  could  in  a  wide  circle  to  the  north  that 
should  fetch  Mustang  Ponds,  beyond  which  lay 
the  ninety-mile  dry  march  to  the  Pecos. 

I  will  not  go  into  the  details  of  that  march. 
Just  to  think  of  the  suffering  it  caused  us  makes 


THE  BORDER  RUFFIANS         163 

me  sick  yet.     Seven  of  us  reached  the  river;  two 
of  the  wounded  failed  to  last  through. 

But  come  to  the  Pecos  our  plight  was  pitiable. 
We  had  no  food  but  such  game  as  we  could  kill, 
and  no  salt  for  that;  little  ammunition  remaining; 
no  horses  but  the  exhausted  wrecks  that  had  car 
ried  us  across  the  plains.  And  there,  lying  hid 
den  in  the  mesquite-thickets  that  line  the  river,  we 
had  to  stay  three  days,  resting  beasts  and  men. 

The  jump  from  Horsehead  Crossing  to  Co- 
manche  Springs  was  another  forty  miles  without 
water,  and  on  it  we  started  shortly  after  midnight, 
travelling  by  the  stars. 

Daylight  arrived,  we  kept  a  close  lookout,  for 
we  were  crossing  favourite  stamping-ground  of  the 
Comanches,  and,  while  our  horses  were  again 
fairly  fresh,  we  had  scant  ammunition  for  a  fight. 

We  were  not  greatly  surprised,  therefore,  when 
from  a  ridge  that  looked  out  across  a  wide  valley 
that  led  up  to  the  spring  a  long  column  of  at  least 
two  or  three  hundred  Indians  appeared,  trailing 
tepees  and  children,  bucks  and  squaws  mounted, 
heading  in  toward  the  spring  from  the  direction  of 
old  Camp  Lancaster. 

Instantly  we  ducked  back  out  of  sight  and  did 
the  only  thing  we  could  do  —  struck  an  easy  lope 
north  toward  Phantom  Lake,  hoping  we  had  not 
been  seen. 

Phantom  Lake  was  then  known  to  only  one  of 
our  party  —  one  of  Patterson's  men  who  had 
there  escaped  an  attack  of  Indians.  A  queer  place 
it  was,  as  he  described  it  and  as  we  found  it. 


1 64  THE  VANGUARD 

At  the  foot  of  a  low,  white  limestone  cliff  lay 
a  deep  lake,  perhaps  seventy-five  yards  in  diameter, 
fed  by  a  great  stream  fifteen  feet  wide  and  no  one 
knows  of  what  depth,  which  runs  from  a  cave. 

At  its  entrance  the  cave  has  a  height  above  the 
stream  of  no  more  than  six  feet,  but  within  opens 
into  lofty  chambers  whose  roofs  are  lost  in  the 
gloom  and  are  connected  by  low,  narrow  pas 
sages. 

What  the  spread  of  the  chambers  below  water- 
level  may  be  is  matter  of  conjecture,  for  catch  by 
the  hands  on  jutting  points  of  the  wall  and  try  to 
reach  a  footing,  and  one  finds  his  feet  and  legs 
drawn  deep  in  behind  the  line  of  the  wall.  In 
the  first  chamber  and  well  to  one  side,  out  of  line 
with  the  entrance,  are  some  broad  ledges,  or 
benches,  upon  which  a  swimmer  may  climb. 

There  are  two  things  about  that  lake  which, 
doubtless,  have  served  to  give  it  its  name.  It 
must  be  bottomless,  for  its  level  never  rises,  not 
withstanding  the  young  river  constantly  pouring 
into  it ;  and  the  chambers  within  are  crowded  with 
millions  of  bats  that,  when  disturbed  by  a  venture 
some  swimmer,  whirl  about  awing  until  the  air 
is  fairly  solid  with  them  and  with  a  noise  that, 
heard  for  the  first  time  by  one  unwarned,  which 
would  stampede  him  into  the  outer  light,  never  to 
return,  unless  the  world  without  held  for  him 
greater  known  terrors  than  the  unknown  horrors 
lurking  in  the  darkness  of  the  cave's  inner  re 
cesses. 


—  IX  — 

THE   PLACE  OF  DEMONS 

PHANTOM  LAKE,  therefore,  and  the 
fearsome  depths  of  the  caverns  that 
spawned  it,  promised  safe  sanctuary  to 
imperilled  plains  farers  bold  enough  to 
avail  themselves  of  its  shelter. 

Our  plan  had  been  to  water  and  rest  at  the  lake 
until  midnight,  and  then  strike  up  into  the  Diablos 
in  the  direction  of  Eagle  Springs,  for  we  had  no 
stomach  for  the  befeathered  neighbours  sure  to 
be  ranging  the  highlands  the  next  day.  But  to 
ward  night,  and  when  about  a  mile  from  the  lake, 
off  on  our  left  rear  and  scarcely  two  miles  away, 
what  should  we  see  but  a  war  party  of  thirty-odd 
Comanches,  themselves  bearing  toward  the  lake, 
probably  on  the  chance  of  picking  up  campers 
there. 

Water  we  must  have,  and  yet  approach  the  lake 
we  could  not  without  being  seen;  so  we  spurred 
our  tired  horses  to  the  last  burst  of  speed  in  them. 

And  sure  enough  we  had  not  gone  twenty 
jumps  before  the  party  spied  us  and  came  lashing 
on,  their  ponies  so  much  fresher  than  ours  that  they 
were  coming  two  jumps  to  our  one. 

Still  easily  enough  we  reached  the  lake  well 
ahead  of  them,  but  only  to  find  it  would  be  as  im- 

165 


1 66  THE  VANGUARD 

possible  for  us  to  hold  it  as  to  hope  to  escape  our 
pursuers  by  further  flight. 

The  lake  and  the  cave  mouth  were  commanded 
on  all  sides  from  higher  ground,  and  its  near  vi 
cinity  was  shelterless.  If  we  tried  to  give  them  a 
stand-up  fight,  not  a  man  of  us  would  last  twenty 
minutes. 

It  was  abandon  our  horses,  take  to  the  lake 
and  swim  up  its  sluggish  current  to  the  ledges  Pat 
terson's  man  had  described,  or  finish  right  there; 
for,  be  the  demons  of  the  caverns  what  they  might, 
to  our  thinking  they  were  bound  to  turn  out  a 
cheap  bunch  of  tin  horns  compared  to  the  yelling 
band  that  was  already  dropping  lead  enough  into 
that  lake  to  make  it  look  like  a  hailstorm  had  be 
gun. 

So  out  of  the  saddle  we  bounced,  packed  the 
roast  ribs  and  joints  of  venison  and  wild  hog  that 
constituted  our  only  food  store,  and  plunged  into 
the  lake.  Swimming  on  our  backs  and  holding 
our  arms  above  the  water  as  well  as  we  could,  we 
kicked  our  way  into  a  darkness  that  I'll  bet  noth 
ing  short  of  Indians  could  have  driven  several  of 
us  into. 

We  proceeded  in  utter  silence,  save  for  the 
plashing  of  our  heels,  until  our  guide,  true  to  his 
word,  brought  us  alongside  the  ledges  he  had 
promised  us.  But  right  then  the  horrors  hit  us. 

Alone,  I  believe  almost  any  man  of  us  would 
have  plunged  back  into  a  death  by  drowning,  or 
capture  and  torture  by  the  Indians,  rather  than 
remain.  Cold,  clammy  bodies  we  could  not  see 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         167 

banged  us  in  the  face  and  were  gone ;  impish  claws 
plucked  at  our  hair  and  winged  away  before  we 
could  belt  them ;  and  all  the  time  a  whir  of  mys 
terious  wings  filled  the  echoing  cavern. 

I  don't  believe  any  of  us  spoke  for  twenty  min 
utes  after  we  climbed  up  on  the  ledges.  All,  I 
dare  say,  were  struggling  as  I  was  to  master  nerve 
enough  to  use  tongue.  I  know  I  felt  that  if  I 
ventured  to  open  my  mouth  I  should  scream. 

Presently  our  guide  called  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
which  the  cavern  echoed  again  and  again : 

"  Reckon  we're  safe  here,  boys;  but  ain't  she 
hell  for  unholy?" 

"  The  Comanches  are  not  going  to  get  to  eat 
us  up,  but  I  am  allowin'  it  won't  be  long  before 
something  else  does,"  answered  Patterson; 
"  toughest  game  to  keep  your  seat  in  that  ever  I've 
played." 

After  perhaps  half  an  hour  of  torment  the 
ghosts  quit  us,  flew  back,  I  reckon,  to  their  perches 
alongside  of  Old  Horny's  fires.  Fools  if  they 
didn't,  for  it  was  cold  in  there  as  the  summit  of  El 
Capitan. 

Then,  the  cave  silent,  we  could  faintly  hear  the 
voices  of  the  Indians,  who  were  counselling,  I 
reckon,  about  how  they  could  contrive  to  get  our 
scalps. 

The  hours  passed,  goodness  knows  how  many. 
We  had  set  guards  and  had  long  been  taking  turn 
about  dozing.  Night  or  day  was  all  the  same  to 
us  in  there,  for  our  matches  were  wet  and  we  were 
unable  to  consult  our  watches. 


1 68  THE  VANGUARD 

Finally  the  guard  awakened  the  sleepers,  and 
we  could  hear  the  soft  plashing  of  swimmers. 
Presently  we  took  heart,  for  it  became  certain  they 
were  approaching  up-stream,  and  therefore  were 
probably  Indians  —  welcome  enemies  compared 
to  the  winged  horrors  of  the  place. 

Near  to  us  they  came,  almost  directly  beneath 
where  we  were  waiting,  nerve-strung,  to  smash 
their  heads  in  with  the  butts  of  our  rifles,  which 
were  no  good  for  anything  else  in  the  dark.  But 
just  when  another  stroke  or  two  would  have 
brought  them  within  our  reach,  our  demons  of 
darkness  returned  into  action,  bringing,  it  sounded 
like,  a  few  millions  more  of  their  fellow  devils 
along. 

One  flutter  did  the  business  for  that  little  bunch 
of  swimming  Indians ;  they  let  off  a  yell  that  nearly 
deafened  us,  and  dove.  And,  honest,  I  believe 
they  are  diving  yet,  for  it  is  certain  that  they  could 
not  swim  under  water  far  enough  to  get  out  of 
our  hearing,  and  that  we  heard  no  further  sound 
of  them.  Anyway,  they  were  gone  —  that  was 
the  main  thing;  we  didn't  care  how. 

Two  days  and  nights  we  stayed  in  Phantom 
Lake  caves,  we  later  learned  the  time  to  have  been 
when  we  got  back  to  the  settlements.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  our  food  was  exhausted,  and  our 
dread  of  the  place  made  anything  else  preferable. 
We  swam  near  to  the  mouth  of  the  caves,  where 
we  stopped  until  our  eyes  got  used  to  the  blinding 
white  light  of  day. 

Then  a  few  strokes  took  us  out  into  the  lake  — - 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         169 

to  find,  as  we  had  figured,  that  the  Indians  were 
gone,  convinced  that  the  demons  of  the  cave  had 
not  left  enough  of  us  to  filch  a  scalp  from. 

Fast  as  we  could  we  pushed  on  toward  the  Rio 
Grande,  afoot,  over  the  Diablo  Mountains  and 
down  to  Eagle  Springs.  Famished,  footsore  and 
fagged,  we  made  the  springs  the  second  night, 
and  fancied  ourselves  past  our  worst  troubles. 

But,  warned  by  past  experience,  we  camped 
among  some  boulders  that  lay  on  the  slope  above 
the  spring,  and  of  course  set  a  guard.  And  it  was 
well  indeed  we  did,  for  at  dawn  our  two  sentries 
detected  shadowy  figures  creeping  up  on  the  camp, 
and  fired,  and  luckily  killed  a  pair  of  them. 

The  year  1865  was  certainly  starting  in  bad 
for  us.  There  we  were  surrounded  for  the  third 
time,  now  by  Mescalero  Apaches,  about  forty  of 
them. 

But,  with  our  good  cover  among  the  boulders 
and  our  long-range  minnie  rifles,  they  stood  no 
chance  of  getting  to  us  until  our  belts  were  emp 
tied. 

None  of  our  few  remaining  cartridges  should 
be  wasted,  and  therefore  the  three  best  shots 
among  us  —  myself  and  two  others  —  were  to  do 
the  shooting. 

It  turned  out  rather  a  quiet,  restful  day  for  us, 
after  all,  for  we  soon  showed  them  they  could  not 
venture  in  range  of  us  with  their  own  guns  with 
out  the  certainty  of  getting  punctured. 

Near  midday  a  stroke  of  luck  befell  us.  Four 
of  their  little  mules,  stampeded  by  the  racket  of  the 


170  THE  VANGUARD 

firing,  ran  into  our  position,  and  we  succeeded  in 
catching  them. 

While  they  were  pretty  thin,  it  was  not  long 
before  we  were  gnawing  roast  mule  ribs,  for  on 
our  forty-eight-hour  forced  marching  from  Phan 
tom  Lake  through  a  mountain  country  usually  full 
of  deer  we  had  seen  no  game. 

Finally  night  came,  fortunately  overcast.  Get 
on  we  must,  or,  our  ammunition  spent,  be  cer 
tain  of  a  rush  we  could  not  hope  to  survive. 

Moreover,  well  rested  and  fed,  we  would  have 
no  better  chance  later.  So  toward  midnight  we 
struck  out,  crawling  and  creeping  until,  to  our 
surprise,  we  became  convinced  we  had  won  through 
beyond  their  lines.  Then  we  up  and  humped  away 
our  best,  rounding  the  point  of  Eagle  Mountain 
and  getting  into  cover  on  the  slope  of  Sierra 
Blanca  by  dawn. 

For  some  reason  they  did  not  pursue  us,  prob 
ably  out  of  respect  for  our  long-range  rifles  or, 
perhaps,  of  contempt  of  our  poverty  of  everything 
except  our  arms  and  scalps. 

And  so,  moneyless,  ragged  and  haggard,  we 
reached  Mesilla.  And  it  was  not  until  more  than 
a  year  later,  when  old  John  Chisholm  tackled  the 
job  himself,  that  any  one  again  undertook  to  bring 
cattle  across  the  Staked  Plain. 

In  Mesilla  I  found  my  old  comrade,  Cox,  a  few 
weeks  out  of  hospital,  entirely  recovered,  but  car 
rying  a  bit  of  metal  in  his  skull  nature  never  put 
there.  But  he  was  all  the  readier  to  engage  in  a 
promising  new  enterprise  for  that,  and,  wonder 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         171 

of  wonders  to  me,  he  was  about  as  nearly  strapped 
of  ready  dough  as  I.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
ever  known  him  broke. 

For  just  credit  of  his  gaming  industry  and  skill 
I  want  to  explain  that  nothing  but  his  wounds 
could  have  brought  him  to  such  a  low  financial 
state. 

But  we  were  not  without  friends,  and  managed 
to  borrow  a  couple  of  horses  to  carry  us  down  to 
Paso  del  Norte,  where  Maximilian's  invasion  of 
Mexico  was  making  lively  times  along  the  Chihua 
hua  frontier. 

And  it  was  right  there  our  luck  turned  for  the 
better,  temporarily  at  least.  The  next  day  after 
our  arrival  we  learned  that  the  general  command 
ing  the  native  Mexican  forces  had  been  offering 
one  thousand  dollars  to  any  one  who  would  carry 
despatches  through  to  his  superior  in  the  city  of 
Chihuahua,  with  no  takers. 

That  sounded  about  our  size.  Both  the  inter 
vening  country  and  Chihuahua  itself  were  held  by 
the  French  or  their  partisans;  the  road  was  pa 
trolled.  The  warfare  had  been  so  merciless  that 
neither  natives  nor  foreigners  had  cared  to  take 
a  chance  of  being  caught  with  those  despatches 
and  of  finishing,  blindfolded,  before  an  adobe  wall. 

But  we  had  a  few  tricks  up  our  sleeves  for  the 
Frenchmen,  and  jumped  at  the  chance  —  moseyed 
away  down  the  Rio  Grande  until  we  were  below 
the  last  settlement,  Guadalupe,  and  then  split  the 
desert  open.  We  made  a  bee-line  that  proved  to 
be  well  enough  chosen  and  followed  to  fetch  us 


172  THE  VANGUARD 

into  Chihuahua  one  dark  night,  without  having 
seen  either  the  highroad  or  even  a  single  human 
being  on  our  journey,  And  it  was  by  the  same 
route  we  returned  —  and  took  down  that  useful 
little  thousand. 

Our  next  venture  was  a  bad  loser;  might  have 
known  it  would  be  before  we  went  into  it.  But 
I  have  always  thanked  my  stars  we  got  out  of  it  as 
soon  as  we  did,  for  to  this  day  it  remains  the  only 
downright  hold-up  game  I  ever  started  to  draw 
cards  in. 

Colonel  Latham,  an  ex-Confederate,  was  or 
ganising  a  band  of  thugs  for  the  avowed  purpose 
of  circling  Chihuahua  city  and  standing  up  and 
robbing  the  French  specie  train,  shortly  due  to 
come  up  from  the  south. 

He  had  assembled  in  camp  among  the  cotton- 
woods'below  Paso  del  Norte  two  hundred  of  the 
worst  scoundrels  the  two  recently  opposing  armies 
had  let  loose  on  the  Rio  Grande  border. 

Cox  and  I  sat  in  and  drew  cards,  but  we  did 
not  last  long  in  that  game.  To  hold  the  men  to 
gether  the  leaders  had  kept  the  camp  full  of  mes 
cal,  a  liquor  made  from  the  century  plant,  and 
about  eight  out  of  every  ten  men  were  fighting 
drunk  and  drunkenly  fighting,  the  bullies  forcing 
all  the  menial  camp  tasks  on  the  fainter-hearted. 

The  very  next  day  after  we  joined  we  marched 
south.  In  the  early  evening,  while  I  was  water 
ing  my  horse  a  short  distance  from  camp,  one  of 
the  bullies  to  whom  Cox  was  unknown  ordered 
him  to  go  and  rustle  firewood. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         173 

Cox's  answer  was  a  quiet  inquiry  whether  the 
giver  of  the  order  was  a  fighter.  To  which  the 
poor  fool  answered: 

"  I'm  from  the  Lone  Star  State;  I've  got  five 
points  to  my  star,  and  each  one  is  a  fighting  point ! 
Square  up  in  front  of  me,  you  d — d  brass-mounted 
oldblowhard!" 

As  he  talked  —  for  he  had  made  the  same  fatal 
mistake  of  talking  so  many  did  in  dealing  with 
Cox  —  he  drew  his  pistol  and  pointed  it  directly 
at  Cox.  But  scarcely  were  his  lips  shut  on  his 
last  word  before  he  fell  with  a  bullet  through  his 
heart. 

That  was  one  of  the  lightning  plays  Cox  loved 
to  make,  giving  a  man  every  advantage  of  a  per 
fect  drop  and  then  potting  him. 

A  friend  of  the  five-pointed  conversational  gen 
tleman  tried  to  interest  Cox  —  and  hit  the  ground 
about  as  hard  as  his  mate. 

By  the  time  I  got  back  to  camp  Cox  was  gone. 
That  night  I,  too,  slipped  away.  And,  while  it 
may  seem  incredible,  the  fact  is  that  no  less  than 
eleven  men  were  killed  in  similar  personal  rows 
during  the  two  days  we  were  with  Latham's  band. 

Ultimately  he  must  have  whipped  them  into 
better  order,  for  they  certainly  succeeded  in  in 
tercepting  the  pay-train,  slaughtered  the  escort, 
and  got  the  two  hundred  thousand  'dobe  dollars. 

Little  good  did  doughty  old  Latham's  enter 
prise  do  him.  For  while  they  made  a  safe  geta 
way  —  slipped  through  Carretas  Pass  and  on 
down  through  Nacora  to  the  Gulf,  and  safely 


174  THE  VANGUARD 

crossed  to  Lower  California  —  burning  desert 
sands  became  the  last  resting-place  and  lazily  nod 
ding  sotol  plumes  the  only  monument  of  his  bleach 
ing  bones. 

One  night  a  dozen  of  the  gang,  headed  by  a 
cutthroat  named  Fairchild,  murdered  Latham  and 
eight  of  his  men,  stampeded  all  the  rest,  and  made 
away  with  the  plunder. 

And  a  few  months  later  I  heard  Fairchild  had 
so  nearly  cornered  all  the  wine  in  Frisco  that  I 
concluded  he  had  contrived  to  make  way  with 
most  of  his  mates. 

Returned  to  New  Mexico,  Cox  re-enlisted  in  a 
cavalry  regiment,  I  in  Company  E  of  the  First 
Volunteer  Veteran  Infantry,  which  served 
mounted.  And  it  was  in  this  regiment  I  won  a 
promotion  —  none  too  deservedly,  really  —  that 
came  near  costing  me  my  eyesight. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  the  slashing  fine 
sorrel  bronco  I  picked  to  race  away  from  Lath 
am's  mad  bunch  that  won  me  my  stripes. 

For  it  was  more  my  horse  than  I  that  was  con 
sidered  when  I  was  picked  by  my  captain  to  carry 
from  Los  Pinos  to  Fort  Craig  a  package  —  of  I 
knew  not  what  —  delivered  to  me  by  Quarter 
master  Dick  Hudson. 

Important  papers,  he  said  they  were,  and  I  must 
make  it  through  between  dusk  and  dawn,  to  run 
no  chance  of  being  potted  by  Apaches. 

And  when,  the  next  morning,  after  having 
roused  him  out  of  his  bed,  I  delivered  my  package 
to  the  Fort  Craig  quartermaster,  and  he  asked  me 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         175 

if  I  knew  its  contents,  and  untruly,  but  inadver 
tently,  I  answered  "  Yes,"  it  was  rare  good  luck 
for  me. 

"  Well,"  he  smilingly  replied,  "  you  are  a  rare 
good  man  in  these  times;  it's  not  every  volunteer 
of  your  variegated  bunch  that  could  be  trusted 
with  nine  thousand  dollars  so  near  the  Mexican 
frontier." 

Back  to  Los  Pinos  I  made  another  night  dash, 
carrying  a  letter  for  my  captain.  And  when  at 
the  dress  parade  on  the  evening  of  my  return  an 
order  was  read  to  the  battalion  promoting  me  to 
the  rank  of  corporal,  for  honesty,  no  one  was 
more  surprised  than  I. 

Luckily  the  limber-conscienced  Cox  was  not 
along,  with  knowledge  of  my  trust.  Had  he  been, 
my  arms  would  never  have  owned  the  pride  of 
stripes  unless  I  had  beefed  him. 

But  those  stripes!  It  was  mixed  joy  and 
grief  they  were  to  me.  For  I  was  near  going 
cross-eyed  or  plumb  blind  staring  at  them  —  won 
dering,  wondering  whatever  Miss  Bessie  Mc- 
Vicker  would  say  to  them ;  whether  she'd  have  the 
same  jeers  for  the  corporal  that  she  was  ever  over- 
handy  with  for  the  awkward  lad  in  the  Michigan 
sugar-busk 

Ah,  me!  but  the  years  don't  seem  to  stack  up 
high  enough  to  obscure  my  memories  of  the  tan 
talising  bush  lass  who  started  me  on  the  long 
scout. 

Many  were  the  lithe  senoritas  of  the  Califor- 
nian  pladtas,  with  the  eyes  and  grace  of  a  prong- 


176  THE  VANGUARD 

horn  antelope,  that  have  held  me  within  their  lure, 
but  not  one,  not  a  single  one,  have  I  been  able  to 
look  long  upon  before  the  mischievous  face  of 
little  Bessie  slipped  in  to  blanket  her. 

My  enlistment  with  the  First  Veterans  I  served 
out,  chiefly  riding  express  and  escorting  the  mails 
across  the  Jornado  del  Muerto,  in  charge  of  a 
squad  of  my  company  guarding  the  stagecoach. 

Pretty  near  a  man's  job  was  the  latter,  both  in 
its  heavy  demands  on  a  man's  endurance  and  on  his 
nerve.  As  I  have  previously  stated,  from  the 
take-off  at  Dona  Ana  to  Valverde,  where  the  top 
of  the  Rio  Grande  Canon  is  reached,  is  a  full 
ninety  miles.  And  the  only  living  water  in  the 
entire  distance  was  at  Fort  McRae,  beside  the 
tiny  Ojo  del  Muerto  (Death  Spring)  in  the  Ca- 
ballo  Mountains,  a  wide  detour  from  the  direct 
trail.  Crisscrossed  by  a  maze  of  lava  ledges,  no 
equal  area  of  comparatively  level  plain  in  the 
world  offers  such  an  endless  succession  of  natural 
ambush  as  that  through  which  the  old  Chihuahua- 
Santa  Fe  trail  wound,  crooked  as  a  squirming 
snake. 

And  it  was  a  heavy  toll  of  death  the  travel  of 
the  Jornado  paid  in  those  days  to  both  Indians 
and  Mexicans.  No  scalp  was  there  safe,  no  mat 
ter  what  one's  vigilance. 

We  lost  Dr.  Hall  one  night  —  shot  out  of  his 
seat  beside  the  driver  before  we  could  get  our 
guns  into  action.  His  murderers  escaped  in  the 
darkness. 

At  the  time  we  blamed  the  Navajos ;  but  on  the 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         177 

return  trip,  camped  for  the  night  near  the  same 
point,  a  band  of  horsemen  came  riding  upon  us, 
and  when  they  paid  no  attention  to  my  challenge  I 
fired  into  them,  emptied  one  saddle  and  stam 
peded  the  rest. 

My  game  proved  to  be  a  Mexican,  as  were  also, 
doubtless,  his  mates.  Anyway,  whoever  they 
were,  they  learned  it  was  unhealthy  to  monkey 
with  my  little  band. 

The  truth  is  I  was  scared  that  night,  and  when 
I  get  a  good  scare  on  it  gets  mighty  unhealthy  for 
any  bad  men  in  the  neighbourhood  who  don't  let 
me  alone. 

The  mail-stage  made  weekly  trips.  On  one  oc 
casion  I  was  ordered  out  on  a  scout  with  my  little 
squad.  The  next  week,  there  being  no  spare  men 
in  the  post,  the  authorities  took  a  chance  and  sent 
the  stage  out  without  a  guard. 

At  that  time  I  lay  at  Fort  McRae,  resting  my 
worn-out  men  and  beasts  from  a  wide,  grilling 
circle  in  the  Jornado  that  had  only  yielded  us  three 
scalps. 

Fort  McRae  nestled  in  a  deep  gorge  of  the  Ca- 
ballos,  close  beside  the  sweet  waters  of  the  Ojo 
del  Muerto.  The  garrison  included  only  one  com 
pany  of  mounted  infantry,  seventy-five  men. 

Lieutenant  Albert  J.  Fountain  was  the  post  ad 
jutant,  quartermaster,  and  commissary  —  and  also, 
at  the  moment,  the  post  commander,  his  captain 
being  absent  at  Fort  Craig,  forty-five  miles  farther 
up  the  Rio  Grande,  on  a  court-martial. 

And  it  was  cosy  quarters  Fountain  had  there, 


178  THE  VANGUARD 

two  rooms  circular  in  form,  about  fifteen  feet  in 
diameter,  made  by  setting  cottonwood  logs  in  a 
trench,  the  walls  so  formed  being  plastered  with 
mud  except  where  loopholes  were  left,  all  roofed 
with  a  Sibley  tent. 

The  furniture  —  well,  perhaps  it  would  not  be 
so  very  ardently  admired  now,  but  to  a  field  cam 
paigner  like  me  it  looked  fine,  although  tables, 
chairs,  and  bunks  were  made  of  no  better  than 
hewn  cottonwood  dragged  up  from  the  valley  of 
the  Big  River  by  his  soldiers,  with  a  turn  of  their 
lariats  around  their  saddle-horns.  The  bunk  and 
chairs  were  more  comfortable  than  you  might 
fancy,  for  they  were  bottomed  with  horsehide. 

Nor  were  his  diggings  bare  of  ornaments.  The 
walls  were  hung  thick  with  the  trophies  of  many 
a  deadly  tussle  that  had  served  to  distinguish  Foun 
tain  as  one  of  the  ablest  and  most  tireless,  but  often 
too  reckless,  Indian  fighters  the  California  Col 
umn  produced. 

Beside  his  bunk  hung  his  California  saddle,  his 
spurs  and  lariat;  above  it  his  Sharp's  breech 
loader,  canteen,  and  two  Colt's  revolvers,  the  Im 
proved  Dragon  model. 

For  the  rest,  the  walls  'were  beautified  by  a 
score  or  more  scalps;  gaily  plumed  head-dresses; 
moccasins,  beaded  belts  and  knife  and  bow  scab 
bards,  bows  and  arrows. 

Among  the  scalps  I  recognised  Mescaleros,  Coy- 
oteros,  Finals,  and  Gilas,  all  of  the  Apache  race, 
and  a  goodly  bunch  of  Navajos  —  the  latter, 
doubtless,  toll  he  had  taken  in  satisfaction  for  the 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         179 

hot  grilling  run  and  aching  wounds  a  Navajo  war 
party  gave  him  and  his  mate  the  time  Juan  Arollo's 
cigarette  fired  the  grama  grass. 

It  was  little  more  than  half  a  day's  rest  we  had 
at  McRae,  for  in  mid  afternoon  in  rolled  the  stage, 
come  for  refuge  (for  the  post  lay  ten  miles  off 
the  direct  road  to  Fort  Craig),  shy  two  mules, 
minus  its  mail  bags,  and  with  one  of  its  passengers 
sporting  a  puncture  of  the  shoulder. 

"Where  did  you  lose  your  mails ?"  growled 
Fountain. 

"  About  twenty  miles  southeast  of  here,"  an 
swered  the  driver.  "  Indians  got  after  us,  and 
we  had  to  discharge  cargo.  Fancy  run  they  were 
giving  us.  Never  would  have  shaken  them  if  they 
hadn't  stopped  to  plunder  the  bags." 

In  a  second  Fountain  had  his  trumpeter  sound 
ing  "  Boots  and  Saddles,"  and  in  ten  minutes  we 
were  mounted  and  away.  I  trailed  along,  al 
though  I  believed  there  was  small  chance  of  our 
striking  the  marauding  band. 

Still,  the  season  was  that  of  the  late  summer 
rains,  August,  when  for  two  or  three  weeks  the 
desert  is  transformed  as  by  magic  into  a  meadow 
beautiful  and  sweet  as  any  the  world  holds,  car 
peted  with  bright  green  grama  grass  and  wild 
flowers,  when  the  air  swarms  with  honey  bees  and 
the  cups  of  the  lava  ledges  become  pools  of  limpid 
rain  water. 

August  is  the  month  of  all  others  to  watch  out 
for  raids  by  the  red  enemy,  and  it  was  not  unrea 
sonable  to  hope  they  might  yet  be  lurking  along 


i8o  THE  VANGUARD 

the  stage  road,  on  a  chance  of  the  fat  pickings  the 
scant  overland  civilian  travel  occasionally  offered. 

It  was  a  swinging  lope  Fountain  led  us,  for  the 
moist  ground  spared  us  the  dust  columns  that  made 
a  daylight  surprise  of  the  enemy  almost  impossible 
through  eleven  months  of  the  year. 

When  we  reached  a  protecting  lava  ledge  he 
made  us  hide  behind  it  while  he  himself  played 
Indian,  plucked  a  handful  of  grass  and  bound  it 
around  his  forehead,  crept  to  the  crest  of  the 
ledge  and  raised  his  head  until,  while  only  the  tuft 
of  grass  showed  above  the  rim,  his  eyes  could 
search  out  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  near-by 
rocks. 

Satisfied  of  a  clear  front,  over  the-  ledge  we 
passed  and  on  we  raced. 

Toward  evening  we  noted  a  small  train  of  six 
wagons  creeping  down  out  of  the  north,  appar 
ently  bent  upon  marching  on  into  the  night. 
Shortly  thereafter,  almost  at  dusk,  Fountain  made 
another  reconnaissance  and  saw  a  long  line  of  slink 
ing  figures  crawling  into  a  position  that  com 
manded  the  road. 

"  Got  'em,  boys,  got  'em,"  he  whispered  when 
he  slipped  down  to  us;  "  follow  me  and  dodge  the 
boulders." 

Dismounted,  we  followed  along  the  ledge  on 
our  right  until,  at  length,  we  could  cross  in  dark 
ness  the  break  through  which  the  road  wound. 
There  we  left  our  horses,  circled  until  well  in  the 
rear  of  the  Indians'  position,  and  then  we  stalked 
them. 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS         181 

Ah,  the  joy  of  stalking  men,  of  matching  hu 
man  cunning  against  human  cunning!  How  it 
makes  the  most  thrilling  big  game  stalking  look 
like  kitten  play!  We  stalked  that  band  of  In 
dians  to  within  thirty  yards,  helped,  of  course,  by 
their  absorption  in  the  approaching  quarry  on 
their  right  front. 

Something  over  an  hour  we  held  them  at  short 
range,  the  plain  silent  as  the  interstellar  space 
above  us  save  for  the  occasional  shrill  call  of  the 
coyote. 

At  last  we  heard  low,  whispering  murmurs  in 
the  north,  that  presently  resolved  themselves  into 
the  groans  of  axles  and  creaks  of  ox  yoke  bows. 

On  came  the  teams,  drivers  all  unsuspecting,  no 
scout  out  ahead,  like  men  groping  blindly  at  the 
very  door  of  death. 

And  so,  in  fact,  they  were,  for  every  last  man- 
jack  of  them  was  certain  to  fall  the  moment  they 
reached  the  front  of  the  Navajo's  position.  No 
men  ever  strode  nearer  death  and  escaped  it. 

On  they  came,  out  of  our  sight  but  easily  lo 
cated  by  the  thump  of  ox  feet  and  the  rattle  of 
gear.  Then  when,  at  length,  their  lead  team  was 
nearly  up  to  the  head  of  the  Navajo's  ambuscade, 
forward  we  crept  another  ten  yards  and  rushed 
them. 

Well,  those  Indians  were  the  most  surprised 
bunch  of  men,  I  reckon,  since  the  whale  coughed 
up  Jonah. 

Our  rifles  rattled,  and  then  it  was  in  among  them 
with  the  pistols.  It  was  all  over  inside  of  five 


1 82  THE  VANGUARD 

minutes,  and  their  survivors  were  lost  in  the 
shadows  of  the  night. 

One  of  Fountain's  men  got  a  lance  through  the 
shoulder,  one  of  mine  a  belt  over  the  head  with 
an  empty  gun.  That  was  all  —  no  dear  price  to 
pay  for  eleven  scalps  and  the  gear  of  their  wear 
ers. 

The  flash-in-the-pan  little  action  over,  it  took 
nearly  ten  minutes  of  yelling  to  convince  the 
freighters  that  they  were  still  safe  on  the  hither 
side  of  Jordan  and  persuade  them  to  stop  the  ran 
dom,  badly  rattled  fire  they  had  opened  the  mo 
ment  the  first  gun  popped. 

All  that  saved  us  from  injury  at  their  hands 
was  that  most  of  us  were  covered  from  their  fire 
behind  the  rocks  throughout  the  affair. 

Of  course  they  were  grateful  for  their  deliver 
ance  and  profuse  in  their  thanks.  We  brought 
up  our  horses,  had  supper  with  the  freighters  and 
camped  there  for  the  night. 

Dawn  found  us  up  and  away,  back-tracking  the 
band,  on  a  search  for  fragments  of  the  mail. 

And  talk  of  rural  delivery;  that  was  a  fancy 
and  impartial  one  those  Indian  counterfeit  post 
men  had  made.  Hardly  a  sage  bush  or  mud  pud 
dle  for  miles  that  had  not  drawn  at  least  one 
letter  out  of  their  shuffle.  Few  of  the  letters  were 
torn.  The  Indians  had  evidently  quit  opening 
them  when  they  found  the  little  packets  held  nothr 
ing  but  worthless  bits  of  paper  scrawled  with  in 
comprehensible  signs. 

But,   curiously,   all  the  illustrated  papers   and 


THE  PLACE  OF  DEMONS        183 

magazines  were  torn  to  fragments,  their  illustra 
tions  doubtless  having  been  mistaken  for  a  modi 
fication  of  the  crude  style  of  picture-writing  the 
Indians  themselves  practised. 


—  X  — 

AN   EVENTFUL    HONEYMOON 

IT  was  late  in  my  enlistment  that  I  last  met 
Fountain,   and  had  again  the  privilege  of 
following  him. 
A  few  weeks  earlier  I  had  heard,  from 
the  gossip  of  two  officers  at  "  stables,"  that  while 
detailed  at  Mesilla   on  a  court-martial,   he  had 
met  a  girl  from  Chihuahua,  at  a  ball  of  the  local 
quality,  whose  first  glance  had  served  to  hobble 
and  stake  him  at  her  tent  door  for  all  time,  and 
she  had  returned  his  fiery  attachment,  from  the 
first  glance,  it  was  said. 

And  it  was  a  prize,  in  every  sense,  that  the 
Mesilla  ball  yielded  the  young  lieutenant.  For 
not  only  was  she  of  the  bluest  blood  of  Chihuahua, 
but  daughter  of  an  old  don  whose  cattle  were  num 
berless. 

She  was  not  one  of  your  kittenish  sort,  the  kind 
that  purr  themselves  hoarse  when  you  pet  them, 
but  scratch  like  furies  when  by  chance  their  fur 
is  rubbed  a  bit  the  wrong  way.  Instead,  she  was 
one  of  the  rare  types,  the  only  type  of  a  woman 
worth  tying  to,  with  a  character  and  a  temper; 
none  of  your  forgivers-and-forgetters,  but  the  sort 

184 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON    185 

that  can  love  as  hard  as  they  can  hate  and  can 
hate  like  hell. 

Fit  mate  was  she  for  a  fighting  man  like  Foun 
tain.  Happy  the  destiny  that  brought  together 
two  such  indomitable  spirits. 

Never  a  dallier,  the  moment  he  could  obtain  a 
leave  of  absence  from  his  commanding  officer, 
off  for  Chihuahua  our  hot-foot  lieutenant  was 
whipping  and  spurring,  his  mission  there  probably 
the  hardest  he  ever  tackled. 

Among  Mexicans  the  memories  were  still  green 
of  the  then  recent  wars  that  had  stripped  them  of 
California  and  of  her  immense  territory  extend 
ing  thence  far  to  the  east  of  the  Rockies,  territory 
she  had  held  for  nearly  three  centuries  by  right  of 
discovery  and  conquest. 

The  hatred  of  Mexicans  for  Texans  in  particular 
and  Americans  in  general  was  never  more  bitter 
than  when  Fountain  crossed  the  Rio  Grande  and 
rode  south  to  win  from  her  father  his  sweet 
heart. 

But,  handy  with  his  tongue  as  with  his  arms, 
winning  of  way  with  men  as  with  women,  he  took 
the  wall  of  raci^J  hatred  at  full  gallop,  swept  aside 
all  opposition  of  the  don  and  his  family,  and  within 
a  week  of  his  arrival  was  racing  back  to  his  post 
cuddling  close  to  his  heart  their  consent  and  bless 
ing. 

A  fortnight  before  our  meeting,  he  had  been 
married  at  Chihuahua,  a  wedding  the  old  don 
made  the  talk  of  the  state  for  years. 

Indeed,  it  was  nothing  less  than  the  coach  of 


1 86  THE  VANGUARD 

state,  all  blazing  with-  gold,  that  carried  the 
wedded  pair  from  the  splendid  old  iron-grey  ca 
thedral  to  the  stately  palace  where  Don  Ignacio 
lorded  it  like  a  prince  of  old  Castile;  for  in  hours 
of  need  he  was  altogether  the  most  dependable 
financial  prop  of  the  state.  In  the  formal  qua 
drille  that  opens  all  ceremonial  balls  in  Spanish 
America,  it  was  no  less  a  notable  than  the  gov 
ernor  who  led  out  the  bride  and  Fountain  who 
danced  with  the  wife  of  Chihuahua's  chief  execu 
tive. 

On  the  long  march  from  Chihuahua  to  Paso  del 
Norte,  nestled  among  the  vineyards  and  alamos 
that  there  have  converted  a  narrow  strip  of  the 
desert  into  an  oasis  as  fair  as  any  in  the  sun- 
kissed  valleys  of  Andalusia,  they  were  escorted  by 
a  troop  of  Mexican  cavalry. 

But  they  had  little  more  than  crossed  the  fron 
tiers,  no  more  than  reached  Mesilla,  before  the 
young  bride  got  a  reminder  of  the  rudest  of  the 
discomforts  and  dangers  to  which  she  had  com 
mitted  herself  as  a  soldier's  wife. 

For,  his  leave  too  nearly  expired  to  permit  of 
delay  for  the  greater  comfort  and  security  of  the 
regular  coach  and  its  escort,  and  always  self-con 
fident  to  the  point  of  sheer  recklessness,  what  did 
Fountain  do  but  start  for  his  long  trip  across  the 
Jornado  to  Fort  McRae  in  a  buckboard,  drawn 
by  four  mules,  alone  with  his  wife  and  a  driver. 

Madness  of  the  worst,  but  it  was  Fountain. 

Up  through  the  sandy  reaches  of  the  long  slope 
from  Dona  Ana  to  the  brow  of  the  mesa  they 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON  187 

climbed,  and  on  across  a  dozen  or  more  miles  of 
the  Jornado  they  trotted  without  incident. 

But  before  they  were  yet  opposite  Elephant 
Butte,  Fountain's  constantly  questing  eyes  caught 
a  feathery  dust  column  sweeping  toward  them, 
from  the  direction  of  the  river,  that  could  scarcely 
be  anything  other  than  an  Indian  war  party  that 
had  marked  them  by  their  dust  and  was  racing  in 
pursuit. 

He  at  once  put  his  mules  to  a  gallop.  The 
dust  column  gained  on  him.  Occasionally,  when 
there  came  a  lull  in  the  prevailing  high  south 
wind,  he  caught  brief  glimpses  of  kicking  heels, 
lashing  quirt  arms,  and  straining  mounts,  above  a 
score  of  them,  that  left  no  doubt  a  race  was  on 
which  he  must  win  to  live. 

The  southern  third  of  the  Jornado  holds  few 
of  the  lava  ledges  which,  farther  north,  offer  such 
excellent  opportunities  for  defence  as  well  as  for 
ambush. 

On  the  hostiles  came,  gaining,  at  every  jump 
on  his  overburdened  team. 

Within  an  hour  they  had  opened  fire,  and  he  was 
throwing  back  at  them  an  occasional  shot.  But 
the  range  was  yet  too  long  for  their  arms,  the 
tossing,  bounding  buckboard  too  unsteady  for  use 
ful  work  by  even  so  reliable  a  shot  as  Fountain,  so 
no  damage  was  done  to  either  side. 

The  trouble  was  that  they  were  constantly  draw 
ing  nearer  —  and  nearer ! 

Something  must  be  done,  something  that  would 
stop  the  pursuit.  In  another  twenty  minutes  at 


1 88  THE  VANGUARD 

the  most,  the  enemy's  fire  would  be  reaching  them, 
ill  aimed,  of  course,  but  in  such  a  hail  they  would 
be  sure  soon  to  have  a  mule  down,  at  least. 

And  then,  great  God!  No  alternative  but  to 
shoot  his  bride  and  fight  them  until  he  fell ! 

A  crisis  to  paralyse  the  bravest  and  most  re 
sourceful! 

But  that  little  wild  one  was  equal  to  it ! 

First  he  tossed  overboard  two  small  mail  sacks 
he  was  carrying  to  Fort  McRae.  Sure  enough, 
two  Indians  stopped  and  picked  them  up,  but  it 
was  for  them  only  a  task  of  seconds.  Meantime 
the  band  raced  on. 

Then  he  began  to  throw  out  their  valises,  one 
by  one,  at  intervals.  This  device  worked  better, 
both  as  lightening  load  on  his  team,  and  as  bait 
to  the  savages,  for  as  each  lot  fell  two  or  more 
stopped,  jealous  of  too  rich  appropriations  by  any 
one,  and  the  valises  were  too  bulky  to  throw  on 
their  mounts  and  permit  of  their  further  immedi 
ate  participation  in  the  chase. 

Thus  nearly  half  of  the  Indians  dropped  back 
out  of  the  immediate  chase,  but  those  still  remain 
ing  were  more  than  he  could  hope  to  dispose  of 
single  handed. 

The  pace  was  killing.  The  mules  were  in  a 
lather,  although  they  freshened  a  bit  when  light 
ened  of  the  valises.  But  Fountain  well  knew  the 
gait  must  soon  be  abated,  or  down  they  would  go 
in  the  harness. 

Never  had  Fountain  loved  his  bride  so  much, 
never  been  so  proud  of  her.  From  the  start  of 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON     189 

the  pursuit  she  had  not  turned  a  hair,  had  shown 
no  fear,  had  scarcely  spoken  —  had  left  him  free 
to  study  and  work  out  their  safety  as  best  he 
could. 

And  yet  he  knew  that  she,  as  a  border  bred 
girl,  understood  only  too  well  the  horrors  of  the 
death  impending. 

As  the  Indians  drew  nearer,  she  had  cuddled  a 
little  closer  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
knee.  That  was  all. 

But  it  was  enough  for  Fountain. 

Bullets  were  now  falling  around  them. 

His  last  card  must  be  played  without  further 
delay  —  his  ace  of  trumps,  on  which  alone  hung 
their  lives. 

Overboard,  into  the  swirling  dust  of  the  road 
behind  them,  he  dropped  his  trump  —  a  five  gal 
lon  keg  of  whisky! 

Would  they  stop  ? 

Did  they? 

They  did,  every  last  red  devil  of  them  reined 
in  as  quickly  as  the  half  hitch  of  hair  rope  around 
the  under  jaws  of  their  ponies  that  constituted 
their  crude  bridles  permitted;  reined  up  to  the 
keg,  bounced  off  their  mounts  and  pounced  upon  it 
like  hungering  wolves  upon  a  fresh  kill ! 

Then,  almost  instantly,  a  knowing  as  well  as 
a  bold  player  at  all  Indian  games,  Fountain  took 
the  deadly  strain  off  his  team.  He  pulled  down 
to  an  easy  gallop,  and  within  another  mile  dropped 
to  an  easy  trot,  at  two  miles  gave  them  a  brief 
Halt. 


190  THE  VANGUARD 

He  knew  that  it  would  be  slow  work  digging 
the  hardwood  bung  out  of  that  oak  keg  with  their 
knives,  and  that  once  the  Indians  had  a  taste  of 
its  contents  not  one  would  leave  until  the  last  drop 
was  gone. 

And,  cunning  in  more  ways  than  one,  but 
scarcely  venturing  to  hope  for  meeting  help  to 
play  the  hand  out,  Fountain  had  contrived  to  hold 
the  keg  until  he  could  drop  it  a  few  yards  to  the 
south  of  where  the  first  lava  ledges  set  in  —  in 
other  words,  near  to  an  easily  stalkable  position. 

After  breathing  his  team  a  few  minutes,  on 
north  again  he  bowled,  the  mules  again  at  gal 
lop. 

And  it  was  shortly  thereafter  that,  travelling 
south  from  Fort  Craig  with  my  usual  detachment 
as  stage  escort,  I  in  my  turn  saw  a  column  of  dust 
off  in  the  south  that  made  me  pull  up  at  the  next 
good  defensive  position,  an  isolated  upheaval  of 
lava  with  no  cover  near  it. 

Of  course,  the  dust  might  be  that  of  white 
travel  advancing  along  the  road,  but  the  road  was 
so  tortuous  I  could  not  be  sure;  and  since  we  had 
several  passengers  and  a  heavy  mail,  it  was  better 
to  take  no  chances. 

For  nearly  an  hour  we  sat  watching  the  ap 
proach;  and  since  a  heavy  wind  was  blowing  out 
of  the  south  that  completely  shrouded  the  makers 
of  the  dust,  it  was  not  until  they  had  come  within 
a  few  hundred  yards  of  my  position  that  I  made 
out  a  racing  buckboard. 

Then  up  rolled  Fountain,  his  mules  dropping, 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON     191 

as  they  stood  in  harness,  before  they  could  be 
freed  from  the  traces. 

Briefly  he  told  me  the  story  of  their  experi 
ences,  and  then  smilingly  added:  "  Got  to  make 
'em  pay  for  the  five  gallons  they  held  me  up  for  — 
no,  Corporal?  Fine  stuff  it  was.  Leave  two  of 
your  men  with  the  coach,  come  along  with,  the  rest, 
and  I'll  bet  I  show  you  as  funny  a  fiesta  and  alto 
gether  the  easiest  bunch  of  scalps  you  ever  saw  or 
heard  of." 

And  then,  turning  to  his  bride,  who  had  been 
given  shelter  from  the  sun  within  the  coach,  he 
said:  "  You'll  not  mind  remaining  here  with  the 
stage,  will  you,  dear?  We'll  be  back  early  in 
the  evening,  you  can  depend.  Nothing  to  fear; 
you'll  be  perfectly  safe." 

"Too  safe  whilst  thou  art.  in  danger;  dear,  I 
must  go  with  thee !  "  she  replied. 

"  But  there's  no  danger,"  he  answered;  "  still  " 
—  turning  to  me  with  a  quizzical  smile  — "  what 
do  you  say  to  the  new  volunteer,  Corporal?  " 

"  Always  glad  to  find  a  mount  for  as  fine  raw 
material  as  this  offering,  Lieutenant,"  I  grinned. 
"  I  bet  that  on  a  pinch  she'd  put  up  a  better  fight 
than  the  average  recruity." 

Pleased,  as  he  well  should  have  been  to  own  so 
stout-hearted  a  mate,  Fountain  replied: 

"  Good,  then,  and  it's  two  horses  instead  of  one 
and  off  we  go." 

In  five  minutes  we  were  mounted  and  away, 
on  a  wide  circle  to  the  east,  at  an  easy  pace  that 
raised  little  dust. 


192  THE  VANGUARD 

An  hour  later,  well  to  the  east  of  the  road  and 
counting  on  the  effects  of  the  whisky  to  dull  them 
of  their  natural  vigilance,  we  swung  back  toward 
the  point  where  Fountain  had  chosen  to  dump  his 
bait  and  plant  his  ambush. 

It  was  nearing  twilight  when  we  crept  into  the 
recesses  of  the  rocks  that  commanded  the  posi 
tion. 

Beneath  us  lay  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten. 
For  some  time  we  had  been  hearing  the  "  Ho-o- 
hays!  "  of  their  revel;  now  we  saw  it 

The  loiterers  with  the  jettisoned  valises  had 
come  up  and  brought  their  plunder;  that  was 
plain  at  a  glance.  Nor  had  the  generous  lunch 
box  that  also  had  gone  overboard  been  neg 
lected. 

For  many  yards  around  the  little  camp-fire  at 
which  they  had  been  boiling  coffee,  the  yellow  plain 
was  alitter  with  the  Fountain  finery,  all  of  it  except 
such  as  the  members  of  the  band  had  already  ap 
propriated  for  their  personal  adornment. 

A  few  of  the  bucks  were  stretched  full  length 
on  the  ground,  and  the  rest  were  dancing  furi 
ously  around  the  fire. 

It  was  all  we  soldiers  could  do  to  keep  from 
breaking  into  screams  of  laughter  at  the  grotesque 
figures,  although  for  Fountain  and  his  wife  it  was 
anything  but  funny.  She  had  hardly  spoken  since 
leaving  the  stage  until,  at  the  crest  of  the  barrier, 
slipping  between  the  lieutenant  and  myself,  she 
nearly  cost  us  a  surprise  of  the  band.  When  she 
saw  the  savages  tricked  out  in  her  wardrobe,  hats 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON  193 

and  all,  she  caught  her  husband's  arm,  whispering 
angrily : 

"  Oh!  my  God!  Death  to  the  demons!  Oh! 
Oh!  My  blue  hat,  and  the  pink  one!  My 
grandmother's  mantilla!  And,  look!  look!  myr 
my —  Oh!  I  shall  die  of  shame  —  don't  look 
—  I've  nothing  left!  All  my  clothes  profaned 
and  ruined!  " 

Oh,  but  it  was  a  show!  My  word  for  it,  but 
the  Chihuahua  millinery  they  had  appropriated 
made  them  the  fanciest  lot  of  war  bonnets  ever 
redskins  sported,  feather  plumes  tossing  and  bright 
ribbons  streaming  in  the  evening  breeze. 

And  the  rest !  Pink  silk  hosiery  on  some,  blue 
and  red  on  others!  And  trousers!  Never  get 
an  Indian,  in  those  days,  into  regular  pants,  but 
the  abbreviated  style  those  valises  furnished 
plainly  suited  them  to  death,  for  practically  every 
last  one  of  them  was  wearing  a  funny  sort  none 
of  us  soldiers  had  seen  before,  a  sort  that  couldn't 
be  much  real  protection  in  a  cold  climate,  all  cov 
ered  with  bright  ribbons  and  pretties. 

But  Fountain  did  not  allow  us  much  time  to 
take  in  all  of  that  show,  so  it  is  only  just  glimpses 
I  can  recall. 

Didn't  take  him  long,  I  guess,  to  develop  a  case 
of  mad  about  as  unforgiving  as  his  wife's;  for 
when  we  began  to  "  come  to  "  out  of  the  trance 
her  part  of  the  show  threw  us  into,  what  should 
we  note  but  that  a  big,  ugly  old  coffee-cooler,  evi 
dently  the  chief,  was  ambling  around  the  fire  in 
the  lieutenant's  full  dress  uniform! 


i94  THE  VANGUARD 

With  cocked  hat  roosting  on  his  feathers,  the 
dress  sword  dangling  about  his  legs  was  now  and 
then  tripping  him  a  header  that  set  Fountain 
hoping  would  come  near  enough  to  breaking  his 
neck  to  save  the  necessity  of  shooting  that  new 
uniform  full  of  holes.  Only,  the  sword  didn't 
do  it. 

So,  presently,  the  lieutenant  passed  the  whis 
pered  word  down  our  line,  "  Fire  at  the  word,  and 
then  into  them  with  the  pistols  1  " 

Seconds  later  the  word  came.  And  while  it 
was  already  dusk,  the  range  was  so  short  that  lit 
tle  lead  was  wasted,  so  little,  in  fact,  that  the  pis 
tols  soon  did  the  rest  —  did  it  so  effectually  that 
I  have  always  feared  there  was  little  of  the  re 
trieved  wardrobe  not  overventilated  for  winter 
wear. 

Details?  Just  a  little  too  gruesome,  I'm  afraid, 
for  the  refined  sensibilities  of  these  days,  but  I 
may  say  it  was  only  four,  to  the  best  of  my  mem 
ory,  that  got  to  their  ponies  and  escaped. 

It  was  not  often,  however,  in  our  clashes  with 
the  Navajos  that  we  got  something  for  nothing, 
and  that  affair  was  no  exception  to  the  general 
rule. 

Drunken  Indians  fight  like  fury,  stand  up  and 
take  their  medicine  more  cheerfully  than  when 
sober  —  actually  don't  come  to  realise  they  are 
dead  until  you  get  their  scalps  off. 

So  it  was  with  that  band.  Why,  at  our  first 
fire  even  those  who  had  jagged  themselves  into  a 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON  i9j 

trance  we  had  supposed  would  surely  lessen  the 
odds  against  us,  were  on  their  feet  in  an  instant, 
and  once  we  were  down  among  them  were  jabbing 
savagely  with  their  lances. 

None  broke  for  their  ponies  until  we  had  most 
of  the  band  down  for  keeps,  not,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  until  three  of  my  best  mates  were  stiffening 
on  the  ground. 

And  there  to  this  day  the  three  sleep,  ranked 
within  the  shadows  of  the  lava. 

Our  reprisals  were  so  heavy  Fountain  should 
have  been  happy,  it  seemed  to  me,  but  when,  di 
rectly  after  the  action  was  over,  he  found  the 
chief  fallen  across  the  fire  and  his  new  full  dress 
uniform  coat  pretty  well  reduced  to  cinders,  he 
looked  anything  but  pleased. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  evening  when  we  got 
back  to  the  stagecoach,  where,  finding  Fountain's 
mules  measurably  recovered,  we  hooked  them  to 
the  buckboard  and  he  and  his  wife  bowled  away 
west  for  Fort  McRae. 

And  never  again  did  I  set  eyes  on  the  gallant 
lieutenant. 

It  was  a  passenger  on  that  same  southbound 
coach  that  brought  me  news  of  the  finish  of  my 
good  friend,  Peach.  For  real  friends  the  wild 
pair,  he  and  Cox,  were  to  me.  They  were  always 
doing  their  best  to  keep  me  out  of  their  worst 
scrapes,  training  me  to  face  death  with  steady 
nerves,  and  thus  schooling  me  in  what  turned  out 
to  be  my  lifelong  occupation,  battling  with,  re- 


196  THE  VANGUARD 

straining  and  apprehending  the  most  desperate 
outlaws  that  infested  the  stage  roads  and  mining 
camps  of  the  Far  West. 

I  have  always  felt  myself  the  debtor  of  those 
two  rough,  courageous  knights  of  the  Far  West, 
and  it  was  for  me  a  sad  day  when  they  passed  out 
of  my  life. 

Strangers  to  any  colour  of  restraint  of  them 
selves,  neither  could  stand  army  discipline  and 
were  in  perpetual  hot  water  with  their  company 
commander.  Nothing  prevented  their  being  cash 
iered,  or  worse,  but  the  fact  that  for  any  des 
perate  emergency  that  called  for  straight  shoot 
ing  and  reckless  courage  backed  by  always  cool 
heads,  they  were  worth  any  ten  men  in  the  regi 
ment. 

And  however  unworthy  and  reprehensible  his 
life  out  of  the  service  before  the  war,  and  even  in 
the  service,  Peach's  finish  was  worthy.  For 
nearly  a  year  after  his  enlistment  terminated  he 
did  splendid  service  as  a  scout  for  the  troops 
along  and  west  of  the  Missouri. 

But  at  last,  one  day,  he  passed  out  as  most  of 
his  kind  did  in  those  days. 

At  the  time  he  was  scouting  ahead  of  a  wagon 
train,  near  old  Fort  Phil  Kearney,  through  a  sec 
tion  the  Ogallalas  let  few  trains  slip  through 
without  attack. 

Scouting  a  couple  of  miles  ahead  of  his  com 
mand,  carefully  working  along  and  spying  out  the 
belt  of  timber  that  lined  the  stream,  he  over 
looked  a  detachment  of  a  large  war  party  which 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON    197 

had  hidden  itself  in  a  deep,  dry  watercourse  that 
wound  across  the  broad,  level  valley. 

The  first  inkling  he  had  of  danger  was  when  a 
band  of  yelling  warriors  charged  him  from  the 
rear,  and  a  still  larger  band  dashed  out  and  down 
upon  him  from  their  ambush  higher  up-stream. 

Cut  off  from  his  command,  all  he  could  do  was 
spur  across  the  valley  for  the  hills.  But  he  had 
run  less  than  half  a  mile,  showered  about  with  the 
ill-aimed  lead  of  his  pursuers,  when  it  became 
plain  to  him  he  could  not  escape  the  rapidly  con 
verging  lines. 

Help  was  coming  from  the  right  —  a  detail  of 
the  cavalry  escort  was  racing  toward  him  —  but  it 
would  be  too  late  unless  he  could  hold  his  enemies 
at  bay. 

There  was  only  one  chance  —  a  stand.  He 
took  it. 

Seeing  no  buffalo  wallow  available  as  a  breast 
work,  he  leaped  to  the  ground,  cut  his  horse's' 
throat,  dropped  behind  its  quivering  carcass  and 
began  shooting  the  already  circling  enemy. 

On  came  the  cavalry,  closer  and  closer.  Al 
ready  they  were  beginning  to  fire  at  long  range. 
It  almost  seemed  his  plucky  fight  was  won,  when, 
wholly  unsheltered  from  the  rear,  a  shot  drilled 
his  head. 

Cox?  Well,  since  both  of  us  remained  rovers 
of  the  western  wilds,  for  some  years  our  trails 
now  and  then  crossed. 

When,  at  length,  the  term  of  enlistment  of  the 
First  Veteran  Volunteers  ended,  the  military 


198  THE  VANGUARD 

posts  lining  the  Rio  Grande  and  scattered  through 
the  mountains  of  New  Mexico  were  garrisoned 
again  with  regulars,  freed  from  service  in  the 
South  by  the  gradual  pacification  of  the  more 
turbulent  centres  of  reconstruction. 

With  a  few  of  my  mates  I  drifted  north  up  the 
old  Santa  Fe  trail,  thence  east  to  the  Missouri, 
fetching  up  ultimately,  stony  broke,  in  Chicago. 

Work  I  must  have,  but  get  it  I  couldn't,  or  at 
least  didn't  until  I  got  hungrier  than  I  like  to  think 
of  now. 

With  all  the  industries  of  the  country  disorgan 
ised  by  the  four  years  of  civil  war,  few  now  liv 
ing  can  realise  the  distress  and  hardship  suffered 
by  thousands,  as  from  day  to  day  of  that  period 
one  after  another  of  the  regiments  was  mustered 
out  of  service. 

Work  was  not  to  be  had.  High  into  the  thou 
sands  ran  the  number  of  the  discharged  volun 
teers  —  youngsters  who,  like  myself,  had  gone  to 
the  war  wholly  untrained  in  any  useful  trade. 
The  break-up  of  the  Northern  and  Southern 
armies  had  set  them  adrift,  and  for  many  of  them 
the  late  sixties  hold  memories  of  little  but  want 
and  misery. 

At  last,  after  I  had  starved  down  so  thin  I  could 
not  tell  whether  I  had  a  stomach  ache  or  a  back 
ache,  I  was  taken  into  the  canvas  gang  of  a  circus 
—  and  found  it  very  little  less  bloody  work  than 
fighting  Navajos. 

Fights  more  than  a  plenty  were  the  lot  of  cir 
cus-men  in  those  days  —  among  themselves  when 


AN  EVENTFUL  HONEYMOON     199 

an  unusually  dull  day  left  nothing  doing  with  out 
siders.  For  the  first  few  weeks  I  did  not  fare 
so  well,  but  once  I  got  my  weight  back  I  never 
once  was  whipped  while  I  stayed  in  the  show  busi 
ness.  In  fact  I  made  such  a  reputation  that  I 
quit,  jumped,  for  once  a  man  gets  a  proper  "  rep  " 
as  a  fighter,  of  any  sort,  men  are  far  too  plenty 
who  will  come  miles  to  call  him  down. 

It  was  in  Philadelphia  I  graduated  from  the 
circus.  Hearing  General  Sherman  was  in  town, 
I  made  bold  to  call  on  him.  Like  the  fine  soldier 
he  was,  the  General  saw  me  promptly;  and,  after 
inspecting  my  service  papers,  he  was  kind  enough 
to  provide  me  with  transportation  to  Fort  Lara- 
mie. 

Laramie  I  had  picked  as  the  best  place  to  find 
employment  at  tasks  of  the  sort  I  was  most  used 
to,  for  at  the  time  the  papers  were  full  of  ac 
counts  of  atrocities  the  overland  travel  up  the 
Platte  River  was  suffering  at  the  hands  of  the 
Sioux. 


—  XI  — 

STILL   SHEES   SING   MA   LODGE 

THE  famous  old  frontier  garrison,  Fort 
Laramie,  stood  on  a  gravelly  bench 
land  beside  the  limped  waters  of  the 
Laramie  River,  near  its  junction  with 
the  turbid  current  of  the  great  North  Platte. 
Previous  to  the  discovery  of  gold  in  California, 
it  had  been  a  fur-trading  post.  Thereafter, 
throughout  the  period  of  the  great  overland  move 
ment  to  Nevada  and  California,  and,  indeed,  for 
some  years  after  the  completion  of  the  Union 
Pacific  Railway,  it  was  the  principal  garrison  be 
tween  Fort  Phil  Kearney  and  Fort  Bridger.  Ly 
ing  midway  of  the  long,  weary  trail,  it  was 
the  place  of  refuge,  rest  and  supply  of  the  ad 
venturous  thousands  who  fared  westward  from 
the  Missouri.  Its  day-to-day  history  for  twenty- 
five  years  would  hold  no  dull  pages. 

Arrived  there,  I  found  myself  back  in  my  kind 
of  life,  among  my  kind  of  people ;  back  out  of  the 
stifling  reek  of  cities,  into  the  bright  sunshine  and 
crisp  air  of  the  foot-hills  of  the  Rockies;  back  far 
away  from  the  cave-dwelling  metropolitans  and 
soil-delving  plodders  whose  narrowly  circum 
scribed  lives  hardens  hearts,  shortens  vision  and 

200 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE    201 

dwarfs  manhood  to  all  too  near  resemblance  of 
the  pathetic  human  types  that  groped  timidly 
through  the  Flint  Age.  Ah!  but,  to  my  think 
ing,  it  takes  big  horizons,  plenty  of  elbow-room 
and  lots  of  God's  pure  air  to  save  a  man's  brain 
from  atrophy  and  keep  his  blood  from  turning 
to  skim-milk,  big  horizons  to  make  big  men. 
No  city  ever  spawned  better  than  crude  counter 
feits  of  a  Bonaparte  or  a  Washington.  Naught 
but  the  bitterest  struggles  with  life  at  its  crud 
est  and  hardest  and  a  youth  spent  amid  the 
brooding  solitudes  of  boundless  wilderness,  could 
have  served  to  endow  our  beloved  Lincoln 
with  his  divine  prescience,  his  lofty  moral  cour 
age,  his  majestic  mind  and  Christ-like  sympathies. 

And  speaking  of  sympathies,  it  was  there  at 
Laramie  mine  got  educated  and  broadened. 

There  at  the  time,  and,  indeed  for  many  years 
before  and  many  thereafter,  the  Post  Trader  was 
Col.  Bullock,  a  real  gentleman,  if  I  ever  saw  one, 
of  sound  old  Virginia  stock,  as  close  a  student 
of  humans  as  of  the  quality  of  powder  and  pel 
tries.  Trading  among  the  Indians  since  his 
youth,  knowing  them  intimately  in  their  native 
state,  long  before  they  were  first  forced  to  war 
and  then,  later,  contaminated,  degenerated,  by 
the  greed  of  the  whites,  he  remained  to  his  death 
their  warm  admirer,  sincere  friend  and  ardent 
advocate. 

To  me,  then,  his  views  were  novel;  for,  come 
into  the  Indian  country  at  the  period  when  about 
all  the  red  tribesmen  from  the  Gulf  to  the  British 


202  THE  VANGUARD 

line  were  on  the  war  path,  I  had  only  known  them 
as  ruthless  raveners  through  the  Plains  and  Rock 
ies,  whom  it  was  fight  to  a  standstill  or  die  at  their 
hands.  But  that  it  was  not  always  so,  he,  and 
others,  later,  well  convinced  me. 

On  many  a  night,  squatted  around  the  big  fire 
place  in  his  store  that  stood  at  the  northwest  angle 
of  the  parade  ground,  I  have  sat  for  hours  among 
a  group  of  army  officers,  trappers,  scouts,  guides 
and  Indians,  listening  to  Bullock's  yarns  of  inci 
dents  illustrative  of  what  he  was  always  contend 
ing  was  the  high  character  and  admirable  virtues 
of  the  red  race  before  they  were  maddened  by 
injustice  and  debauched  with  civilised  vices. 

One  night,  stirred  by  the  raw  boasts  of  a  young 
officer  of  his  diversions  among  the  tepees  of  a 
neighbouring  Sioux  camp,  there  for  trade  during 
a  brief  lull  in  the  generally  prevailing  warfare, 
Bullock  broke  in : 

"  So.  So !  more's  the  pity.  But  it  was  not  al 
ways  so,  gentlemen,  I  give  you  my  word. 

'  Virtue  ?  Why  no  so  called  civilised  com 
munity  of  history  ever  esteemed  and  practised 
virtue  as  it  was  held  and  practised  by  all  the 
Plains  tribes  I  have  known,  and  I  reckon  you  will 
admit  there  are  none  I  have  not  known.  Hum; 
virtue !  carries  me  way  back  to  —  well,  to  —  to 
memories  of  the  prettiest  squaw  I  ever  saw,  one  it 
was  a  mighty  big  temptation  to  lie  to  get,  for  get 
her  without  a  lie  I  could  not. 

"  I  was  young  and  impressionable  then,  of 
course,  but,  honest,  a  mere  glimpse  of  that  girl, 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE        203 

just  a  long  range  squint  at  her,  would  set  even  a 
crippled  centenarian  capering  —  in  her  direction, 
most  likely.  Clad  in  a  fawn  skin  tunic,  covered 
with  bead  work  and  elk  teeth  and  smoked  to  a 
light  golden  brown  that  blended  beautifully  with 
the  lightly  bronzed  peaches  she  wore  for  cheeks, 
her  two  massive  black  braids  writhing  about  her 
knees  as  she  walked  like  great  black  snakes,  keen 
and  steady  eyed  as  an  eagle,  stately  of  movement 
as  a  princess  of  blood  royal,  she  was  altogether 
the  '  biggest  medicine '  these  hoary  old  Plains 
ever  produced.  None  of  your  docile  camp 
drudges  was  she,  and  a  bold  one  would  be  the 
buck  that  could  muster  the  courage  to  try  to  break 
her  to  one.  The  only  Indian  girl  any  of  you  ever 
saw  that  could  even  approach  her  is  Emily 
Richaud,  old  Nic  Janis's  daughter,  the  one  that 
tomahawked  the  Chief  Yellow  Hair  for  killing 
her  man. 

"  And  it  was  sure  enough  royal  blood,  in  a 
Plains  way,  that  was  racing  in  that  girl's  veins, 
for  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  head  chief  of  a 
big  band  of  Lakotas,  a  downright  wild  bunch,  then 
come  in  to  the  post  to  trade  for  the  first  time, 
from  God  alone  knows  how  far  above  the  Bad 
Lands. 

"  Never  will  I  be  caught  forgetting  the  morn 
ing  her  scarred  old  father  marched  up  to  the 
store,  followed,  it  looked  to  me,  by  what  must  be 
about  all  the  squaws  of  his  band,  all  loaded  to 
break  their  backs  with  furs,  all  but  her,  for  I 
reckon  you  could  no  more  force  a  load  on  her 


204  THE  VANGUARD 

than  on  a  war  chief.  For  those  were  proper 
Treasure  days,  when  the  different  bands  rarely 
showed  up  for  trade  that  their  dogs  were  not 
packing  all  the  fur  they  could  travels,  fur  in  qual 
ity  and  quantities  that  spelt  quick  riches  for  the 
trader  lucky  enough  to  get  it,  buffalo  and  elk 
robes,  buck  and  antelope  skins,  beaver  and  otter 
sometimes  in  bales,  with  now  and  then  a  silver  fox 
or  a  black  wolf. 

"  Cost  me  a  plenty,  too,  did  their  arrival,  for  I 
was  close  to  a  big  bargain  for  a  rare  fine  lot  of 
otter  with  old  No  Flesh;  and  when  I  forgot  all 
about  him  and  his  bunch  of  otter,  as  I  did,  the 
moment  I  saw  that  girl,  the  old  coffee  cooler  got 
huffy,  took  his  fur  away,  and  never  brought  it 
back. 

"  Of  course,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  my  second 
wind  I  had  to  settle  down  to  trading,  but  I  guess 
the  chief  found  me  about  the  softest  snap  in  the 
way  of  a  trader  he  had  ever  been  up  against. 
For  it  didn't  take  more  than  about  two  squints 
to  convince  me  I  wanted  that  girl  more  than  all 
the  fur  then  offering  in  Laramie,  and  I  was  wast 
ing  no  time  trying  to  win  her  good  graces,  with 
nuts,  and  candy,  and  raisins,  and  —  and  with  rib 
bons  and  every  last  gawd  and  trinket  I  could  think 
of  likely  to  impress  her  with  at  least  some  small 
measure  of  the  sentiments  I  found  swelling  me 
nigh  to  bursting. 

"  Days,  and  finally  a  week  so  passed,  until  the 
sweets  and  trinket  end  of  the  shelves  and  show 
cases  were  near  bereft  of  contents  —  but  to  good 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE    205 

purpose,  for  her  eyes  were  softening  to  me,  her 
lisped  Lakota  labials  lower  toned,  her  hand  shake 
—  well,  it  had  come  to  have  a  mighty  nice  gentle 
little  pressure  in  it. 

"  Time  to  tackle  her  father,  the  old  chief,  was 
plainly  come,  and  I  got  busy  —  sat  down  with 
him  one  afternoon  to  smoke  and  bargain,  for,  as 
among  all  primitive  folk,  the  disposal  of  his 
daughter  as  a  bride  was  from  his  viewpoint  purely 
a  matter  of  barter,  a  question  of  how  much  he 
could  get  for  her.  And  a  fine  article  of  old  hold 
up  he  turned  out;  stuck  me  a  plenty  before  he  got 
done,  although  I  may  as  well  admit  that  if  he  had 
had  nerve  enough  to  tap  me  for  the  entire  store 
and  stock  of  unshipped  furs,  like  as  not  he  would 
have  gotten  them,  for  I  sure  wanted  that  girl, 
bad. 

"  Well,  after  putting  in  the  entire  afternoon  at 
it,  hammer  and  tongs,  finally  we  got  together  on 
terms,  and  gravely  shaking  hands  on  the  deal,  he 
pulled  his  freight  for  his  lodge. 

"  The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  he  was 
at  the  store  with  a  string  of  squaws  and  young 
bucks,  come  for  the  mixed  lot  of  plunder  that  rep 
resented  the  agreed  price  of  my  princess.  And  I 
was  ready  for  him,  no  fear. 

"  To  the  young  bucks  my  breeds  turned  over 
my  grey  race  mare,  La  Bonte,  the  swiftest  piece 
of  horseflesh  west  of  the  Big  Muddy,  sure  alone 
to  win  him  twice  the  value  of  all  the  stuff  I  was 
turning  over  to  him,  and  also  five  split-eared 
cayuse  ponies. 


206  THE  VANGUARD 

"  Then  the  squaws  gathered  up  the  rest,  a  lot, 
and  a  big  lot  it  was,  of  flour,  sugar,  salt,  cloth, 
blue  broadcloth  and  calico  prints,  a  Hawkins  rifle 
and  enough  powder  and  lead  to  equip  a  fair  sized 
war  party  —  just  can't  remember  it  all.  But  I  do 
recall  my  greedy  old  prospective  father-in-law  in 
sisted  at  the  finish  I  must  '  throw  in,'  as  boot,  a 
can  of  peaches,  at  which  I  didn't  balk  —  glad 
enough  he  was  not  tapping  me  far  harder. 

"  That  night  I  strolled  down  to  his  camp,  to 
claim  my  bride.  Come  to  his  lodge,  he  received 
me  with  all  the  grave  courtesy  of  my  old  Virginia 
daddy,  seated  me  on  a  robe  beside  the  lodge  fire, 
and  motioned  my  princess  and  the  other  squaws 
out  of  the  lodge.  When  we  were  alone,  he  slowly 
filled  and  carefully  tamped  his  great  council  pipe, 
lighted  it,  took  a  whiff  and  passed  the  pipe  to  me. 

"  And  there  we  sat  smoking,  passing  and  re- 
passing  the  pipe,  for  quite  an  hour,  in  utter  si 
lence,  before  he  spoke.  At  last,  looking  me 
straight  in  the  eye,  he  queried: 

"  4  My  friend,  how  long  you  stay  among  us? 
You  stay  here  all  your  life,  'till  Wakanda  calls 
you  to  join  the  Spirit  Hunters?  ' 

11  Surprised  at  the  question,  but  not  dreaming 
what  was  coming,  I  answered,  '  My  friend,  I  can 
not  tell  you.  In  his  movements,  a  white  man  is 
governed  by  his  work,  his  business.  I  may  re 
main  here  among  you  until  I  die,  and  I  may  not. 
Only  Wakanda  can  know.' 

"'Ah!  Ah!'  he  softly  murmured;  '  as  I 
feared;  as  I  feared.'  And  then  he  fell  silent  for 


STILE  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE     207 

perhaps  ten  minutes,  gazing  fixedly  into  the  fire. 
But  presently  he  resumed: 

"  '  But,  my  friend,  you  leave  here,  you  travels 
back  to  the  Big  Water,  to  the  Land  of  the  Ris 
ing  Sun,  where  your  great  white  tribe  have  their 
lodges,  you  take  my  daughter  with  you?  She  be 
always  your  squaw,  wherever  your  lodge  is 
pitched?  ' 

"  Took  me  clean  off  my  feet,  did  that  question, 
for  in  an  instant  I  realised  it  spelled  the  finish 
of  all  my  dreams  —  unless,  to  be  sure,  I  lied  to 
him,  and  my  old  Virginia  daddy  had  not  brought 
me  up  to  lie  comfortably.  Take  her  home! 
Why  I  reckon  it  would  just  about  break  the  heart 
of  my  dear  old  mammie  to  find  me  mated  to  a 
savage  woman,  no  matter  if  she  was  a  princess 
that  would  make  the  home  girls  look  like  —  well, 
just  littler.  No;  it  was  not  possible.  And  NO! 
I  would  not  lie  to  him.  So  I  gritted  my  teeth  and 
answered: 

"  '  My  friend,  I  fear  she  —  we  —  would  not 
be  happy  among  the  white  lodges.  No.  I  ex 
pect  to  stay  here  many  winters,  but  if  go  I  must 
back  among  my  people,  here  I  must  leave  her 
—  but  rich,  chief,  rich;  I'll  leave  her  the  richest 
squaw  of  the  Lakota  tribe.' 

"  Quick  came  my  sentence,  in  sorrowful  but 
firm  tone: 

"  *  My  daughter  is  not  that  sort !  You  can 
not  have  her.  But  your  tongue  is  straight  as  a 
Lakota's;  when  you  most  need  a  friend,  send 
your  young  runners  for  me.' 


208  THE  VANGUARD 

"  And  then  he  rose,  pressed  my  hand,  and 
gravely  lead  me  to  the  door  of  the  lodge. 

"  Crude  as  was  that  unlettered  savage,  product 
of  the  most  primitive  of  Nature's  human  moulds, 
deep  stamped  into  him  was  the  hall-mark  of  all 
the  loftier  qualities  that  distinguish  a  true  gentle 
man,  you'll  all  admit,  when  I  tell  you  that  early 
the  next  morning  he  returned  to  me  the  beasts 
and  goods  I  had  paid  him,  that  for  some  of  the 
food  they  had  consumed  he  paid  me  in  peltries, 
that  he  quickly  finished  trading  with  me  on  far 
cheaper  prices  for  his  fur  than  he  had  been  de 
manding,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  had  struck 
his  tepees  and  was  travoising  away  into  the 
north !  " 

But  before  we  contrived  to  shake  off  the  trance 
Bullock's  yarn  had  thrown  us  into  an  old  dispute 
was  resumed  that  made  a  sharp  foil  to  the  tale 
of  his  own  truthfulness  and  threw  us  into  gales  of 
laughter. 

The  disputants  were  Jim  Bridger  and  Sergeant 
Schneider,  Bridger  the  famous  trapper,  scout  and 
guide,  who  then  for  years  had  made  himself  a 
holy  terror  to  the  Plains  tribes  and  to  the  hos 
tile  end  of  Mormondom,  the  Destroying  Angels; 
Schneider,  a  trapper  through  the  Rockies  a  good 
part  of  a  generation  before,  in  1849,  tne  Mounted 
Rifles  commanded  by  Maj.  Sanderson  established 
Laramie  as  a  military  post,  later,  when  the  game 
became  scarce,  himself  enlisted  in  the  service. 

Met  over  their  cups  in  the  post  canteen,  these 
two  grizzled  old  cronies  were  ever  quarrelling 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE     209 

over  the  question  as  to  which  of  them  had  first 
slept  within  the  shadows  of  Laramie  Peak,  a  dis 
pute  that  often  became  so  bitter  that  worse  than 
verbal  hostilities  were  only  averted  by  the  inter 
ference  of  their  friends. 

Forty  miles  west  of  the  Post  and,  of  course, 
in  all  but  the  stormiest  weather  in  plain  sight  of 
it,  rose  the  magnificent  peak  that  constitutes  the 
most  lofty  uplift  of  the  northern  reach  of  the 
Rockies,  its  snowy  crest  towering  10,000  feet 
above  the  surrounding  plain  and  14,000  feet  above 
sea  level.  The  southern  buttress  of  the  giant  gate 
the  North  Platte's  insistent  current  has  carved 
through  the  main  range,  across  its  very  foot  had 
limped  the  weary  thousands  prey  to  the  lure  of 
California's  gold,  limping  on  to  whatever  des 
tiny  held  for  them,  a  few  to  fabulous  fortune, 
most  to  unmarked  graves,  on  they  had  limped 
through  Whiskey  Gap,  up  the  Sweetwater  and  on 
over  the  South  Pass. 

Scarcely  had  Bullock  finished,  when  Schneider 
opened  truculently  on  his  crony : 

"  Chim  Prijer!  Vould  you  answer  me  vun 
quvestion?  Chust  vun,  Chim?  Now  vould 
you?" 

"  Sure,  old  scout;  why  not?  "  answered  Bridger. 

"  Veil,  now,"  continued  Schneider,  "  vould  you 
pelieve  me  if  I  svore  to  you  I  vas  dellin'  you  de 
druth?" 

"  Liable  to  strain  my  system  horrible,  but  I'd 
make  a  try,"  answered  Jim,  little  suspecting  the 
test  he  was  inviting. 


210  THE  VANGUARD 

"  Veil,  I  chust  vant  to  dell  you  dat  ven  I,  me, 
first  koom  to  dis  country,  Laramie  Peak,  she  vant 
ofer  five  hundrt  feet  high!  Vould  you  pelieve 
dot?  " 

"  Believe  it?  Sure!  I'm  bound  to  believe  it; 
in  fact  I  know  it  must  be  so.  Always  felt  sure 
you'd  dropped  in  around  Laramie  lately,  and  now 
you've  done  give  yourself  away  proper.  Why, 
Schneider,  you  Dutch  tenderfoot,  when  I  first 
drifted  up  into  the  northern  Rockies,  up  there, 
right  where  Laramie  Peak  now  sets,  there  was  a 
hole  in  the  ground  ten  mile  wide  and  a  mile  deep ! 
Reckon  we  can't  count  you  among  the  proper  old 
timers,  son." 

And  with  a,  "  Vat's  de  use  drying  to  argify 
vith  a  tarn  liar!  "  followed  by  a  chorus  of  rum 
bling  Dutch  oaths,  the  old  sergeant  passed  out 
into  the  night. 

No  more  was  the  crowd  calmed  of  its  boister 
ous  merriment  over  Schneider's  discomfiture,  than 
Nic  Janis,  after  tossing  a  fat-sputtering  pine  knot 
among  the  glowing  embers  of  the  fireplace,  took 
up  the  vein  of  thought  of  Bullock's  story. 

A  native  of  the  French  colony  of  St.  Charles, 
far  away  east  down  the  Missouri,  bred  to  the 
red  sash  and  moccasins,  the  bold  heart  and  gay 
spirit  of  a  coureur  du  bois,  to  the  Plains  Janis 
had  come  as  a  voyageur.  But,  more  thrifty  and 
ambitious  than  most  of  his  kind,  then  for  years 
he  had  been  a  trader  among  the  tribes,  who  so 
esteemed  him  and  among  whom  he  had  such  in- 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE       211 

fluence  that  few  were  the  lodge  fires  to  which  he 
was  not  welcome. 

"Mais  oui,  mes  ami;  c'est  bien  vrai,  le  bon 
Dleu  le  salt,"  Nic  began.  "  Ze  good  fren'  ours, 
M'sieu  Bullock,  he's  know  our  peopl'  for  ze  good 
peopl',  ze  kin'  peopl'  wi'  ze  gran'  heart,  zey  are. 
He's  spik  you  ze  straight  tongue.  I  know,  me. 
Ze  hones'  peopl'  zey  are,  aujourdhui,  for  all  who 
spik  zem  ze  straight  tongue. 

"  Yas;  yas;  M'sieu  Bullock,  hees  tell  you  trut'; 
an7  me,  I  could  tell  you  de  storee  true  toute  la  nuit, 
yas,  evr'  night  'til  de  ice  ees  gone  from  ze  boomin' 
Laramie;  yas,  storee  prove  how  Injun  hees  good 
to  enemy  as  to  ze  bes'  fren'  chacun  should  be,  eef 
ze  enemy  ees  distress. 

"Ha!  You  give  ze  laugh?  Tiensl  Quel 
gens  maudites!  Sapristi!  Me,  I  tell  you  one 
instance,  happen  me. 

"  C'etait  cette  hiver  maudit,  ze  wintair  ze  snow 
come  ze  day  of  St.  Francois  Xavier.  Night  an' 
day  ze  snow  she  fall  for  t'ree  days  ovair  all  ze 
plains.  Wen?  M'sieu  Bullock  an'  Jim  Bridger, 
you  remembaire,  non?  More'n  fifteen  wintair 
ago,  non?  Well,  ze  snow  she  fall  an'  fall  wid- 
out  no  win',  till  she  covair  all  ze  Ian'  lak'  one  beeg 
robe  blanche.  Were  ze  win',  ze  gran'  nort' 
win'?  I  do'  know,  me.  Mebbeso  she  tire',  blow 
so  many,  many  year,  an'  she  be  take  a  res',  away 
up  nort'  w'ere  she  have  ze  lodge.  Non? 

"  T'ree,  mebbeso  four  feet  deep  she  lay,  zat 
snow.  Not  one  beeg  grass  hees  show  ze  tete 


212  THE  VANGUARD 

petite.     Ze  grass  hees  covaired;  all  covaired;  all. 

"  So  she  stay  two,  t'ree  days,  ze  air  so  still,  an' 
col',  ah!  mon  Dieu!  so  col' I  Zen  one  night  ze 
sleet  she  come;  nom  de  Dieu,  quel  sleet!  an'  she 
leave  all  ze  worl'  glacee,  une  planche  of  ice !  An' 
zen,  Sainte  Fierge,  how  evairy  wan  hees  suffaire, 
an'  die !  Mais  oui;  toute  le  monde  suffaire,  an' 
near  evairy  wan  hees  die,  ze  mans,  ze  horse,  ze 
Injun,  ze  buffalo,  ze  deer.  Ah!  but  ze  bon  Dieu, 
Hees  mak'  Hees  peopP  ze  crool  hard  time  zat 
wintaire.  W'ite  mans,  hees  die  lak  Injun;  work 
bull  an'  horse,  hees  die  lak  buffalo  an'  deer. 

"  An'  me?  Wy  for  I  no  die?  It  was  jus'  ze 
good  luck,  non  plus.  I  was  camp  fo'  trade  wi' 
Red  Robe's  band  o'  Lakotas,  in  ze  beeg  timbaire 
of  ze  cotton-wood  you  call  ze  Fremont's  Orchard, 
on  ze  Sout'  Platte,  between  Pawnee  Butte  an'  ze 
mout'  o'  ze  Cache  la  Poudre.  Game?  Non! 
Non!  Non!  A  few  young  buck,  hees  go  out 
for  hunt  ze  firs'  few  days,  but  ze  few  who  return 
bring  no  raw  meat  'cept  w'ere  de  ice  crust  o'  ze 
snow  cut  hees  laig. 

"  But  Red  Robe,  hees  Injuns  was  reech;  have 
beaucoup  horse,  many,  many  horse.  Bon!  Ze 
trees  zey  grow  ver'  theek  een  ze  petit  bois,  an' 
zey  mak'  ze  sheltaire  magnifique,  mak'  ze  warm 
place  for  ze  horse,  non?  An'  for  mak'  ze  horse 
ze  belly  full,  squaw  shees  cut  ze  bark  tendaire  o' 
ze  young  cotton-wood,  an'  shees  give  for  eat  ze 
horse.  So  ze  horse  hees  live  on  ze  bark,  et  nous, 
we,  Red  Robe  an'  our  Lakotas,  we  live  on  ze 
horse,  non? 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE       213 

"  Days  an'  days  she  so  stay,  col',  an'  all  ze 
woiT  glacee;  an'  w'ile  we  in  ze  petit  bois)  we  no 
suffaire,  een  all  ze  plains  for  hundr'ds  an'  himdr'ds 
miles,  near  evairy  one  an'  all  ze  game  hees  die 
of  ze  hungaire  an'  ze  col' ;  for  ze  rivaire  she's 
few  een  ze  plains  w'ere  grow  ze  tree  plainty  for 
mak'  ze  sheltaire  an'  for  eat  ze  horse  an'  ze  game. 
Ah !  Mais  oui,  zis  we  learn  plus  tard,  but  ze  firs' 
nouvelles  shees  come  ze  night  of  ze  jour  de  I' an 
—  w'at  you  call  ze  New  Years,  non? 

"  Et  quelle  nuit  d'horreur!  W'at  night  for 
mak'  freeze  ze  marrow  in  ze  bone,  for  since  ze 
nort'  win'  shees  have  beeg  res',  shees  start  een 
autrefois  an'  blow  her  bes'.  Sapristi!  mak'  me 
shivaire  now  to  t'ink  dat  night. 

"  An'  me,  I  sect  by  ze  fire  o'  ma  maison  sauvage 
an'  t'ink  merci  au  Sainte  Flerge  for  save  me  suf 
faire  an'  spare  me  faim.  An'  I  swear  w'en  win 
ter  pas'  an'  come  ze  spring,  ze  travels  a  creakin' 
an'  ze  runner  hees  sing,  I  mak',  me,  for  ze  firs' 
egllse  an'  burn  beaucoup  candle  for  escape  ze 
freeze. 

"  Den  w'ile  I  so  sect,  vair'  much  at  ease,  my 
ear  catch  soun',  outside,  'mong  ze  near-by  trees,  a 
voice  soun'  lak  doleur  humain,  lak'  one  hees  suf 
faire  vair'  much  pain.  An'  w'en,  liftin'  ze  flap 
o'  ma  tepee  door,  dere  on  ze  snow  lay  two  figaire, 
so  stark  an'  still  een  ze  moonlight  glare  I  t'ink 
dey  move  no  more. 

"  I  call  mes  gens  an'  pack  them  een,  an'  ol',  ol' 
warrior,  toute  squellette,  an'  a  gal  petite,  hees 
enfante,  I  bet,  bot'  so  t'in  o'  ze  hungaire  brav'  I 


214  THE  VANGUARD 

t'ink  dem  ready  for  mak'  ze  grav'.  Needer  could 
spik  ze  word  propaire,  on'y  mak'  groan  o'  ze  las' 
despair.  Ze  dog  I  kill;  mak'  soup  for  petit 
soupaire,  for  ze  meat  o'  ze  horse  hees  jamais  ten- 
daire;  an'  gotte,  por  gotte,  leddle  at  time,  I  treat 
dose  Injun  lak'  ma  kin'. 

"  But  at  ze  firs'  glance  w'en  I  lay  dem  dere,  on 
a  t'ick  soft  robe  by  ze  lodge's  fire,  I  see,  Mon 
Dieu!  Quel  chose  etrange!  deys  not  de  nous,  ze 
Lakota  Sioux,  but  ees  Crow,  qui  ton  jours  nous 
mange!  Mais  out,  des  enemi)  who  fight  wit'  ze 
Sioux  since  eternity! 

"  Wan,  mebbeso  two  day  zey  lay  zat  way, 
jusqu'au  mortes,  le  bon  Dieu  sait,  but  w'en  ze  dog 
soup  hees  eat  heem  all,  ze  warrior  hees  talk  an' 
ze  petite  shees  crawl.  Warrior  hees  tell  me  of 
ze  Ian',  een  ze  wide,  smooth  valley  call'  Repub- 
horreurs  gran',  how,  w'en  ze  beeg  snows  covaire 
lican,  zat  geeve  no  shelter  fo'  beast  or  man,  ze 
Crow  camp  shees  lay. 

"  An'  w'en  ze  nort'  win1  hees  come  down,  all 
horse  hees  ron'  'til  hees  can't  be  foun' ;  an'  all  ze 
young  brave,  lak'  warriors,  too,  zat  try  for  trail, 
sloshin'  thro'  sleet  an'  blin'  by  hail,  hees  lost, 
toujours  perdu.  Zen  hungaire  hees  come  een  ze 
lodge  sauvage;  young  squaw  she  seet  een  sullen 
rage,  hark  to  ze  cry  V  les  pauvres  petites  w'ile  ol' 
folks  chant  ze  death-song  meet.  An'  die  as  zey 
seet  an'  lay  as  zey  fall,  soon  ze  nort'  win'  hees 
keeled  zem  all,  an'  lodge  an'  wickiup  mak'  ze 
grave  V  all  no  one  hees  come  to  save  —  all  but 
ze  petite  an'  zis  brave. 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE     215 

"  Zen  out  t'ro'  ze  coF  plain  hees  go,  w'ile  ze 
sun  dogs  glint  on  ze  sheeted  snow,  packin'  hees 
chil',  stumblin',  fallin',  weakenin'  fas'  'til  to  a 
crawl  hees  come  at  las1,  but  ze  crawl  shees  fetch 
heem  by  my  lodge,  provin'  ze  bon  Dieu  heem  no 
dodge. 

"  Wan,  mebbeso  two  week  pass  away,  w'en, 
een  ze  evenin'-time  wan  day,  me,  I  go  to  ze  coun 
cil  lodge,  beat  ze  drum  for  call  ze  tribe,  beat  heem 
more  'til  all  inside.  Zen,  w'en  ze  beeg  pipe  hees 
go  roun',  me,  I  spik'  V  ze  enemi  foun',  tell  how 
hees  come  for  sanctuaire  Dieu  salt  ze  miles  t'ro* 
ze  col',  col'  air. 

"  Zen  up  ros'  chief  een  red  robe  belle,  an'  hees 
tell  me,  *  Brothaire,  you've  done  well;  Arapaho, 
Crow,  or  false  Pawnee,  no  Sioux  can  treat  lak' 
enemi  w'en  ze  nort'  win'  hees  mak'  hell !  ' 

"  An'  me,  I  spik  you  ze  good  tongue  straight, 
w'en  I  tell  you  nex'  day,  at  easy  gait,  ze  Crow 
hees  ride  away,  on  Sioux  horse  to  heem  donnee. 

"  Et  ce  n'est  pas  tout;  zat  ees  not  all;  for  shore 
as  I  sect  here  by  ze  wall,  w'en  ten  year  pass  an' 
I'm  come  id,  here  for  trade  een  ze  Laramie,  ze 
Crow  I  meet  an'  wan  fine  gal  tall. 

"  *  Brothaire,'  hees  say,  '  I  remembaire  well 
ze  col',  col'  day  you  help  ze  poor  Crow  on  hees 
way;  hees  poor  mans  zen  an'  hees  poor  mans  now, 
but  here's  hees  daughter,  she  be  your  squaw !  ' 

"  And  lucky  dog  you,  Nic!  "  Bullock  broke  in. 

To  which  the  voyageur  answered : 

"  Ah !  mats  oui;  blen  vrai;  moi,  I  t'ink  dat  way, 
for  still  shees  sing  ma  lodge." 


216  THE  VANGUARD 

Hushed  the  deep  bass  voice,  finished  the  quaint 
rhymes  into  which  Nic  was  ever  unconsciously 
dropping  when  yarn-spinning,  one  at  least  of  his 
younger  listeners  left  Bullock's  store  with  new 
ideas  of  Indian  character. 

Fort  Laramie  did  not  hold  me  long.  To  be 
sure,  I  had  a  few  weeks'  lively  work  scouting  for 
the  troops  in  the  chase  that  followed  Red  Cloud's 
attack  of  the  whites  at  the  Horseshoe  Bend  of 
the  North  Platte  River.  But  the  rapid  advance 
westward  of  the  Union  Pacific,  and  the  throw 
ing  of  strong  forces  of  regular  troops  into  the 
frontier  garrisons,  made  possible  by  the  paci 
fication  of  the  south,  soon  had  the  Sioux  begging 
for  peace  and  glad  for  asylum  on  a  reservation. 
And  thereafter  quiet  they  stayed  until  the  discov 
ery  of  gold  in  the  Black  Hills,  in  the  heart  of 
their  reservation,  when,  upon  the  Government's 
failure  to  protect  them  against  the  inrush  of  miners 
from  Cheyenne  and  Sidney  on  the  south,  Fort 
Pierre  and  Bismarck  on  the  east,  and  Bozeman  oni 
the  west,  again  they  took  the  warpath,  in  a  last 
desperate  attempt  to  hold  the  fatherland  where 
their  young  were  born  and  their  dead  buried. 
Then  came  the  bloody  battles  of  the  Rosebud  and 
the  Little  Big  Horn. 

So,  once  our  column  was  marched  back  into 
Laramie,  there  was  no  more  work  for  me,  and  I 
joined  a  freighter's  outfit  and  pulled  out  for  the 
then  new  town  of  Cheyenne,  down  through  Eagle's 
Nest  and  the  Chugwater. 

Arrived  there,  I  found  it  made  up  of  the  most 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE     217 

desperate  lot  of  thugs  and  hold-ups  it  has  ever 
been  my  misfortune  to  run  into.  No  man's  life 
or  money  was  safe  there.  They  ruled  the  town 
—  had  the  decent  element  buffaloed  —  controlled 
the  town  peace  officers  and  magistrates  and  them 
selves  composed  the  local  Vigilance  Committee. 
And  any  who  resented  their  robberies  or  sought 
to  check  their  violence  was  soon  hanging,  victim 
of  the  stranglers.  Indeed,  it  was  long  after  the 
rails  were  pushed  out  beyond  Green  River  be 
fore  Cheyenne  contrived  to  measurably  rid  itself 
of  the  band  of  human  wolves  that  made  life  there 
a  terror  for  peaceful  folk. 

Shortly  before  my  arrival,  a  man  named  Harris 
and  another  named  Henry  Poor  Morgan  were 
stretched  by  the  vigilantes  —  for  the  crime  of 
resisting  an  attempt  to  hold  up  and  rob  them  one 
night  after  they  had  been  drinking,  deeper  than 
was  good  for  them,  in  the  dance  halls.  In  de 
fending  themselves,  they  had  the  bad  luck  to  kill 
two  of  the  brighter  lights  of  the  vigilante  fra 
ternity;  that  was  all.  An  Eastern  town  would 
have  turned  in  and  bought  them  a  bunch  of  medals, 
but  there  their  really  very  worthy  service  to  so 
ciety  only  won  them  a  few  feet  of  rope  and  a 
swing  on  a  telegraph-pole. 

One  night,  a  few  days  thereafter,  who  should 
slip  into  our  freighter's  camp  on  Crow  Creek,  at 
the  edge  of  the  town,  than  my  old  California  pre 
ceptor  and  mate,  George  Cox,  the  hero  of  the 
Talama  fiesta,  come  from  God  alone  knows  where, 
fugitive  from  whatever  new  devilment  he  was  not 


2i8  THE  VANGUARD 

telling.  Nor  was  I  asking.  For,  good  a  friend 
as  he  had  been  to  me,  I  had  long  realised  that  the 
less  I  knew  of  his  doings  the  safer  I'd  be.  Of 
course,  his  turning  up  there  did  not  surprise  me 
in  the  least;  wherever  gambling  was  busiest  and 
play  highest,  that  was  the  place  to  look  for  Cox. 
Something  sultry  had  been  doing  with  him  for  a 
certainty,  for  he  slipped  up  to  me  with  finger  on 
lip,  and  at  the  first  chance  tipped  me  that  he  was 
passing  under  a  new  name. 

After  supper,  he  led  me  down  to  the  banks  of 
the  Crow,  where  all  by  our  lonesomes,  he  told  me 
he  had  heard  down  at  Sidney  of  the  hanging  of 
Morgan,  who  had  served  with  us  in  the  California 
Column,  always  creditably;  and  explained  that, 
since  there  was  no  chance  his  murderers  would 
be  punished  by  the  local  authorities,  he  had  come 
over,  as  he  put  it,  "  to  throw  the  fear  of  God  into 
a  few  of  them." 

The  next  day  we  lay  quietly  around  camp. 
When  night  fell,  we  strolled  up  into  town  and  be 
gan  drifting  from  one  gambling  and  dance  hall  to 
another,  Cox  taking  a  fling  at  faro  now  and  then, 
but  only  as  cover  for  his  hunt  for  a  satisfactory 
grouping  of  the  bunch  he  had  planned  to  pot. 

The  fact  is,  he  had  not  asked  me  to  accompany 
him,  and  God  knows  the  truth  is  I  did  not  want 
to ;  but  with  the  odds  he  was  going  against,  some 
scores  against  one,  I  couldn't  get  my  own  consent 
to  let  him  go  alone.  But  when  I  told  him  he 
could  bank  on  my  staying  tight  to  his  flank,  he  an 
swered: 


STILL  SHEES  SING  MA  LODGE    219 

"  Sure,  son,  sure;  I  just  knowed  you'd  want  in. 
Only  you  sabe  old  George  prefers  to  make  his 
war-plays  by  his  lonesome.  However,  I  reckon 
you'd  be  nervous  stayin'  in  camp ;  so  you  can  trail 
along.  But  mind  you  keep  your  guns  in  your 
clothes  till  old  George  is  down  or  gives  you  the 
word  to  cut  in  to  the  play.  And  of  course  it  will 
be  have  the  horses  handy  and  split  the  scenery  a 
plenty  lively  as  soon  as  the  fun  is  over." 

It  was  past  midnight  before  Cox  found  a  stage 
set  to  suit  him  —  a  box  at  the  variety  theatre  that 
held  seven  of  the  most  prominent  of  the  Vigilantes 
remaining  since  the  taking  off  of  the  pair  Harris 
and  Morgan  had  bagged.  We  had  contrived  to 
get  the  box  directly  opposite  them,  separated  from 
them  by  no  more  than  thirty  feet. 

Waiting  until  a  be-spangled  and  be-frilled  frail 
one  had  finished  a  crude  imitation  of  a  French 
cancan,  and  the  weary  piano  thumper  was  taking 
a  brief  rest,  Cox  called  cheerfully  across,  "  Gen 
tlemen,  here's  an  old  comrade  of  Mr.  Henry  Poor 
Morgan,  come  to  attend  to  your  case,  and  he 
wants  a  stiff  for  each  of  the  three  names!  " 

Then,  as  Cox  called,  "  For  Henry !  For  Poor ! 
For  Morgan !  "  two  pitched  over  the  low  box- 
rails  among  the  audience  on  the  main  floor,  and 
one  dropped  like  a  sack  in  the  smoke  of  his  mates' 
pistols.  It  was  a  matter  of  seconds,  mighty  few 
of  them,  until  Cox  and  I  had  jumped  through  a 
window  directly  back  of  our  box,  had  got  to  our 
horses  and  were  away.  And  however  we  es 
caped  the  flock  of  lead  they  threw  into  our  box, 


220  THE  VANGUARD 

I  don't  know;  maybe  because  old  Master  figured 
there  was  plenty  more  like  good  work  for  us 
to  do;  maybe  because  few  of  their  sort  of  curs 
ever  could  shoot  straight  at  anything  more  dan 
gerous  than  a  man's  back,  anyway. 

Long  before  dawn  we  parted.  Better  to  leave 
them  two  trails  to  puzzle  over  if  they  managed  to 
pick  up  our  sign.  But  of  any  pursuit  I  myself 
heard  nothing  at  the  time. 

I  made  it  through  without  incident  to  the  North 
Platte,  beyond  Laramie  City,  where,  stony  broke, 
I  drew  on  my  early  Michigan  training  and  turned 
to  chopping  wood  for  a  grub-stake. 

The  fact  is,  the  ill  luck  that  there  befel  me 
came  nearer  driving  me  to  holding  up  a  train  than 
any  other  stress  I  have  had  to  battle  with.  For 
after  I  had  finished  chopping  and  piling  one  hun 
dred  cords  of  wood,  and  was  starting  to  find  an 
outfit  to  haul  it  in  for  sale  to  the  railroad  con 
tractors,  along  came  some  government  land  offi 
cials  who  declared  me  a  trespasser  on  Uncle  Sam's 
land,  and  seized  my  wood  1 

Pretty  deal  to  hand  a  man  who  had  given  six 
of  his  best  years  to  the  service  of  his  country, 
especially  when  there  were  millions  of  acres  of 
unoccupied  timber-lands  round  about! 

Close  to  pushing  me  out  on  the  scout  for  fair 
was  that  incident.  But  after  having  successfully 
survived  the  temptations  of  my  life  with  Peach 
and  Cox,  I  decided  to  try  for  a  job  to  guard  some 
stage  instead  of  a  chance  to  hold  one  up. 


—  XII  — 

COX   RED1VIVUS 

WHEN  I  finally  became  convinced  there 
was  for  me  no  hope  of  redress  for 
the    seizure    by    government    land- 
agents  of  the  one  hundred  cords  of 
wood   I    had   chopped   on   the   North   Platte,    I 
tramped  west  to  Green  River,  whence  a  newly 
established  stage-line  ran  north  to  the  then  boom 
ing  placer-camp  at  South  Pass  City. 

The  road  was  infested  with  road-agents,  who 
had  been  so  ruthless  in  shooting  up  the  coaches 
that  the  job  of  messenger,  or  stage-guard,  had  be 
come  anything  but  popular.  But  to  a  man  stony 
broke  like  I  was,  it  looked  good,  and  I  had  no 
more  than  applied  for  it  than  I  found  myself 
elected. 

The  third  trip  proved  quite  enough  for  me  — 
showed  me  there  was  nothing  in  it  with  that  com 
pany. 

One  evening,  as  we  were  slowly  dragging 
through  heavy  sand  on  an  up-grade,  out  upon  us 
from  the  sage  brush  sprang  two  bandits.  One 
seized  the  leaders  and  yelled  to  the  driver  to 
stop,  while  the  other  jumped  in  close  to  the  nigh 
front  wheel  and,  by  way  of  introduction,  handed 

221 


222  THE  VANGUARD 

up  a  shot  that  narrowly  grazed  me  and  wounded 
the  driver  severely  in  the  shoulder. 

Almost  at  the  instant  he  fired  I  sprang  off  the 
box  at  him,  shooting  as  I  jumped,  bored  him 
through  and  through,  and  landed  all  tangled  up 
with  him  as  he  crumpled  up.  And,  just  as  I  con 
trived  to  roll  free  of  him,  I  saw  his  mate  starting 
from  the  off-side  of  the  team  to  run  around  the 
leaders  for  a  shot  at  me  —  a  very  silly  play  for 
him  to  make  at  any  man  more  dangerous  than  a 
tenderfoot.  Firing  from  where  I  lay  on  the 
ground,  I  sent  a  shot  below  the  bellies  of  the 
leaders  that  permanently  freed  the  roads  of  num 
ber  two. 

Frightened  by  the  firing,  the  team  ran  away,  for 
the  driver,  with  one  arm  crippled  and  weakened 
of  his  wound,  was  unable  to  control  them.  More 
over,  he  told  me  later,  he  had  thought  me  dead, 
and  did  not  try  very  hard  to  stop  them. 

Thus  left  alone  and  afoot,  and  not  knowing 
what  mates  the  robbers  might  have  near  at  hand 
with  their  horses,  I  ducked  through  the  sage  brush 
and  dough-boyed  it  into  South  Pass  City  on  my 
own  hind  legs. 

There  the  stage  company  did  hire  a  doctor  to 
dress  the  driver's  wound  and  passed  me  a  few 
thanks.  But  since  I  could  not  find  any  one  to 
trade  me  cartridges  in  exchange  for  the  little  jag 
of  thanks  that  constituted  my  only  reward  for 
saving  the  mails  and  express,  and  since  I  knew 
I  was  bound  to  be  a  marked  man  on  that  run,  sure 
to  be  potted  shortly  if  I  stayed,  I  threw  up  my  job. 


COX  REDIVIVUS  223 

I  heard  some  time  passed  before  the  company 
found  my  successor. 

The  next  move  I  made  involved  me  in  alto 
gether  the  most  regrettable  and  one  of  the  most 
dangerous  associations  of  my  life. 

At  that  time  a  man  who  was  known  as  a  most 
desperate  character,  Jack  Watkins  by  name,  was 
camped  near  the  mouth  of  the  Sweetwater,  en 
gaged  in  shooting  elk,  deer  and  antelope,  and  in 
peddling  the  meat  among  the  railway  contractors 
employed  on  the  Union  Pacific. 

While  generally  feared,  he  had  not  as  yet  out 
lawed  himself.  Thus,  when  he  proposed  I  should 
join  him  in  his  meat-shooting  game,  offering  me 
a  half  interest  in  the  gains  if  I  would  do  the  kill 
ing  while  he  attended  to  the  marketing,  it  seemed 
quite  the  best-looking  opening  in  sight  for  me, 
and  I  took  it. 

Come  to  his  camp,  I  turned  to  and  never 
worked  harder,  for  I  thought  I  saw  prospects  of 
a  good,  quick  stake  in  sight. 

To  be  sure,  the  antelope  and  black-tail  deer 
were  easy  enough;  if  one  worked  well  back  from 
the  stage-roads  the  flashing,  yellowish-white  flanks 
of  the  antelope  were  thick  in  the  wide,  rich-grassed 
valley  leading  up  toward  Laramie  Peak  as  sheep 
in  a  pasture. 

But  getting  elk  was  killing  work  for  fair;  for 
until  the  first  heavy  autumn  snows  come  and  drive 
them  to  assembly  in  bands  of  hundreds,  and  often 
of  some  thousands,  in  the  low,  open  valleys,  they 
are  only  to  be  found  high  up,  about  timber-line, 


£24  THE  VANGUARD 

near  to  perpetual  snow.  The  stalking,  and  pack 
ing  their  meat  down  the  gorges,  was  a  job  to  wear 
out  the  strongest. 

However,  at  it  I  continued  cheerfully  enough  for 
three  months,  seeing  little  of  Watkins  —  never, 
in  fact,  except  to  turn  in  my  meat,  unsuspicious 
of  the  storm  he  was  raising. 

I  had  not  been  unmindful  that  I  was  not  seeing 
the  colour  of  any  money,  and  he  must  have  been 
taking  in  a  lot  of  it,  for  there  was  quick  sale  for 
all  the  meat  we  could  deliver. 

But  since,  in  my  isolated  mountain  life,  I  had 
no  use  for  even  a  penny,  and  then  had  no  notion 
he  meant  to  rob  me,  I  was  not  worrying  about  it. 

When  my  awakening  came  it  was  rude  enough. 
During  a  night  he  had  spent  at  my  camp,  come 
to  pack  out  a  load  of  meat,  I  had  told  him  a 
hunter  had  built  a  dugout  in  the  next  canon  north 
of  us  and  was  shooting  meat  for  the  railway 
graders  —  a  youngster,  sort  of  a  tenderfoot  at 
that.  But  since  his  only  comment  was  a  surly 
"  Hell  he  has!  "  I  thought  no  more  of  it. 

Shortly  after  dawn  he  left  my  camp  —  for  a 
week  or  two,  as  usual,  I  supposed.  Fancy  then 
my  surprise  when,  the  following  evening,  two  or 
three  hours  after  dark,  he  stumbled  into  my  cabin 
and  hung  up  on  the  wall  a  new  Winchester  and 
belt  of  cartridges. 

Then  he  squatted  by  the  fire  and  began  awk 
wardly  counting  a  roll  of  bills,  something  over 
two  hundred  dollars.  When  I  asked  him  where 
he  had  been  he  growled: 


COX  REDIVIVUS  225; 

"  Drifted  by  the  dugout  of  that  young  hunter 
feller,  an'  found  some  of  the  neighbours  had 
beefed  him,  so  I  just  annexed  his  plunder!  " 

Froze  me  stiff,  did  that  story,  for  in  a  flash  it 
came  over  me  that  Jack  himself  was  the  murderer. 
And  when  I  blurted  out  the  thought,  told  him  it 
was  quits  for  us  from  that  moment,  and  demanded 
a  settlement,  he  answered: 

"  Sure,  bub,  it  was  me  —  just  little  me. 
Moseyed  up  to  his  window,  found  him  sittin' 
writin'  a  fool  letter  —  to  his  mammy,  it  turned 
out  —  an'  allowin'  he  had  no  partic'lar  right  in 
our  huntin'  preserves,  I  handed  him  a  load  out  of 
the  six. 

"  That  was  what  I  went  over  there  to  do,  as 
far  as  I  can  remember,  for  I  got  mighty  het  up 
last  night  thinkin'  of  him  poachin'  in  on  our  private 
preserves. 

"  An'  now  as  for  you,  bub,  if  you  want  to  quit, 
I  reckon  you'll  have  to.  You've  done  toted  fair 
with  me,  an'  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you  none  —  an'  I 
won't  if  you  cut  out  your  fool  war-talk.  You 
know  back  talk  never  sounds  good  to  Jack;  an'  if 
you  don't  quit  it  I  reckon  he'll  have  to  leave  you 
here,  feed  for  the  coyotes. 

"Settlement?  Sure,  bub;  she's  due  you,  an' 
you  shall  get  it  —  in  the  mornin'.  But  right  now 
I'm  powerful  tired.  Let's  sleep  a  few." 

In  five  minutes  the  red-handed  scoundrel  was 
snoring.  Several  hours  I  sat  alone  by  the  fire 
place,  struggling  with  the  conviction  that  I  ought 
to  waken,  provoke,  and  do  my  best  to  kill  him; 


226  THE  VANGUARD 

and  ever  since  I  have  regretted  I  did  not  do  so, 
for  had  I  succeeded  it  would  have  rid  the  northern 
stage-roads  of  the  most  ruthless  bandit  of  all  who 
for  some  years  thereafter  infested  them. 

And  when  at  last,  worn  of  my  lonely  vigil,  I 
rolled  up  in  my  blankets,  it  was  to  sleep  so  heavily 
that  when  I  awakened  in  the  morning  I  found  that 
Watkins  had  slipped  away  while  I  slept.  Settle 
ment?  Well,  I  guess  he  thought  his  refraining 
from  turning  me  into  coyote  meat  was  about  all 
that  was  coming  to  me  in  payment  for  my  work. 
Anyway,  it  was  all  the  payment  I  ever  got. 

But  at  the  moment  I  was  not  taking  his  treat 
ment  of  me  in  any  spirit  of  resignation.  In  fact, 
I  was  packing  my  blankets  to  take  his  trail  and 
camp  on  it,  when  up  to  my  cabin  came  two  pros 
pectors,  the  Pettie  boys. 

They  had  seen  Watkins  slipping  up  toward  the 
young  hunter's  camp  in  the  twilight,  and  passing 
there  in  the  morning  and  finding  him  dead,  had 
laid  the  killing  to  him,  and  had  started  one  of 
their  prospecting  mates  to  advise  the  troops. 

Then  they  passed  me  a  lot  more  news  of  his 
doings;  how  he  had  been  gambling  and  drinking, 
shooting  up  Laramie  and  North  Platte,  and  gen 
erally  running  riot  there,  evidently  blowing  all  our 
meat  money  as  fast  as  he  got  it. 

So,  realising  that  following  him  could  bring  me 
no  more  than  my  trouble  for  my  pains,  when  they 
plainly  told  me  the  troops  would  be  sure,  finding 
me  Watkins's  partner,  to  take  me  as  an  accom- 


COX  REDIVIVUS  227 

plice,  I  promptly  decided  it  better  to  cut  loose 
from  him  and  begin  anew  elsewhere. 

I  have  always  felt  I  owe  much  to  the  Pettie 
brothers  for  giving  me  the  warning.  Indeed,  of 
this  I  became  convinced  early,  for  while  I  was  en 
route  to  Green  River  a  few  weeks  later  a  mail- 
carrier  gave  me  news  of  the  sequel  and  also  of 
certain  other  of  Watkins's  doings. 

One  evening  a  sergeant  and  trooper  of  Colonel 
Dodge's  command  stole  into  Watkins's  camp, 
caught  him  eating,  and  covered  him  with  their 
pistols  before  he  realised  their  presence. 

At  the  order  to  throw  up  his  hands  Watkins 
cried,  "  Don't  shoot  'im,  Bill !  "  When  the  two 
soldiers  turned  to  confront  what  they  supposed 
was  a  new  danger,  he  dropped  them  both  before, 
in  their  surprise,  they  contrived  to  pull  trigger, 
seized  their  horses,  and  loped  away  into  the  hills 
—  now  an  outlaw  past  reprieve. 

And  that,  assassin  though  he  was,  he  was  not 
lacking  in  nerve  became  a  matter  of  gory  proof 
a  few  weeks  later,  at  Laramie  City,  when  one 
morning  a  friend  of  his  was  arraigned  for  mur 
der. 

Just  as  the  prisoner  was  brought  to  the  bar  by 
Sheriff  Brophy,  Watkins  rode  up  to  the  court 
house  door,  left  his  horse  outside,  coolly  walked 
into  the  court-room,  killed  the  sheriff  and  his 
deputy,  and  he  and  his  friend  escaped,  riding 
double  on  the  one  horse.  And  the  terror  with 
which  he  had  inspired  the  community  was  such 


228  THE  VANGUARD 

that  the  pursuit  of  him  was  not  particularly  en 
thusiastic. 

From  that  hour  to  his  death,  many  years  later, 
with  heavy  rewards  on  his  head,  with  his  descrip 
tion  in  the  hands  of  every  peace  officer  and  in 
every  military  post  west  of  the  Missouri,  mar 
shals,  stage-messengers,  and  troops  were  hunting 
him  for  the  blood-thirsty  beast  he  was,  a  scourge 
of  the  overland  stage  and  emigrant  travel. 

And  lucky  indeed  was  I  to  escape  him  when  I 
did,  although,  to  be  sure,  it  was  not  long  before 
I  had  myself  managed  to  butt  into  trouble  that 
for  a  time  had  me  on  the  scout  to  save  my  own 
skin. 

Striking  westward  to  make  sure  of  putting 
plenty  of  miles  between  myself  and  Watkin's  red 
trails,  a  long,  weary  plod  through  the  alkali  and 
sage  brush  of  the  Bad  Lands  brought  me  to  Green 
River  City,  then  a  new  "  front "  camp  on  the 
Union  Pacific. 

There,  I  met  an  acquaintance  just  then  in  from 
the  West,  who  gave  me  news  of  my  friend  George 
Cox,  in  the  way  of  a  sequel  to  the  bunch  of  off 
hand  justice  he  had  dealt  the  Cheyenne  vigilantes 
for  their  hanging  of  our  comrade,  Henry  Poor 
Morgan. 

It  seems  that  after  we  parted,  he  had  made 
his  way  well  to  the  west  of  Salt  Lake,  and,  finally, 
thinking  himself  beyond  the  hue  and  cry,  had 
gotten  employment  as  a  section  foreman  on  the 
Central  Pacific,  at  Humboldt  Wells,  Nevada. 

But  since  the  friends  of  the  vigilantes  had  put 


COX  REDIVIVUS  229 

a  high  price  on  his  head,  few  weeks  had  passed 
before  a  posse  of  nine  men,  including  three  Chey 
enne  officers  who  had  been  slowly  working  out 
his  trail  and  six  other  local  gun  experts,  rode 
boldly  up  on  Cox  late  one  afternoon,  never  dream 
ing  their  number  could  fail  to  bluff  him  to  a  sur 
render. 

But  they  did  not  know  my  old  mate  —  and,  in 
fact,  only  three  of  them  lived  long  enough  to  get 
acquainted. 

For,  scenting  trouble  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
them,  but  waiting  quietly  until  they  had  come  well 
up  within  close  pistol  range,  standing  unsheltered 
on  the  open  railway  grade  through  the  level  Hum- 
boldt  Valley,  Cox  opened  fire  on  them  before  they 
had  time  to  explain  their  errand. 

And  such  was  his  marvellous  coolness  and  dex 
terity  that  he  had  killed  outright  six  of  the  posse, 
and  had  put  the  other  three  to  flight,  before  they 
realised  they  had  him  riddled  like  a  sieve,  a  sure 
victim  if  they  had  possessed  the  nerve  to  wait 
a  few  minutes  out  of  range  until  he  fell  uncon 
scious,  as  he  did,  of  his  wounds. 

Of  course,  he  had  all  the  advantage  of  being 
firmly  afoot  while  the  posse  were  mounted,  but 
still  I  think  the  reader  will  agree  that,  with  the 
odds  against  him  heavy  as  they  were,  it  was  a  two- 
handed  man's  fight  Cox  put  up. 

Brought  into  the  Wells  by  the  men  of  his  sec 
tion  gang,  Captain  Smith,  of  the  Eighth  Cavalry, 
learning  of  his  desperate  condition,  took  him  in 
charge,  spirited  him  away  into  some  safe  hiding, 


23o  THE  VANGUARD 

and  had  his  wounds  dressed  and  cared  for,  to  his 
full  convalescence,  by  an  army  surgeon. 

In  all  which  good  samaritanship  Captain  Smith 
was  honestly  repaying  a  good  turn  done  him  by 
Cox  some  years  before,  in  old  Tucson  days. 

There,  one  night,  when  the  captain  was  return 
ing  to  his  camp  from  town,  he  was  set  upon  by 
four  thugs  —  Tiger  Bill,  Jack  Briston,  Pete  Bean, 
and  Pat  Marley,  bent  upon  robbery. 

Providentially  for  him,  at  the  moment  of  the 
attack  Cox,  unnoticed  by  the  others,  was  passing. 
Always  lightning  quick  to  take  in  a  situation,  and 
seldom  guilty  of  a  false  play  from  his  point  of 
view,  old  Cox  cut  into  the  game  so  promptly  and 
effectively  that  Captain  Smith  escaped  with  a  few 
cuts  of  the  scalp  that  a  surgeon's  needle  soon 
remedied,  Briston  and  Tiger  Bill  fell  into  their 
last  sleep,  while  Bean  and  Marley  split  the  scenery 
into  ribbons  on  a  wild  stampede  to  get  out  of  range 
of  Cox's  pistols. 

Of  course  the  captain  was  grateful  —  rightly 
enough,  too,  for  doubtless  Cox  had  saved  his  life 
—  but  when  he  offered  Cox  a  hundred  dollars  and 
Cox  declined  it,  his  debt  had  to  remain  unpaid. 
And  so  it  stayed  until  Cox's  fight  at  Humboldt 
Wells  gave  the  captain  his  chance. 

I  found  Green  River  City  a  highly  finished  un 
derstudy  for  Cheyenne,  both  in  respect  of  general 
lawlessness  and  of  dominant  control  by  vig 
ilantes. 

Courts  and  legally  constituted  peace  officers  the 
town  boasted,  but  it  was  seldom  they  found,  or 


COX  REDIVIVUS  231 

were  permitted,  any  form  of  occupation  in  the  line 
of  the  duties  such  authorities  are  supposed  to 
perform. 

All  lived  under  the  corrupt  influence  or  in 
deadly  fear  of  the  vigilantes.  Meantime,  crime 
and  violence  ran  riot,  limited  only  to  the  available 
number  of  victims. 

Two  of  their  most  notable  victims  were  Dr. 
Johnson,  a  nephew  of  Brigham  Young,  and  his 
wife,  a  niece  of  Heber  C.  Kimball  —  kinfolk  of 
the  two  brightest  lights  of  Mormondom. 

En  route  from  Omaha  to  Salt  Lake,  they  were 
camped  alongside  the  rushing  current  of  the  Green, 
just  outside  of  the  town,  and  near  to  my  camp. 

Returning  to  my  camp  early  one  afternoon,  I 
passed  a  gang  of  the  leading  vigilantes  marching 
into  town,  some  packing  the  limp-dangling  body 
of  one  of  the  most  prominent  members  of  their 
organisation,  others  dragging  along  Dr.  Johnson, 
his  hands  bound  and  a  rope  around  his  neck. 

As  the  row,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  no  af 
fair  of  mine,  and  as  my  experiences  among  them 
years  before  had  left  me  with  no  love  for  the 
Mormons,  I  continued  toward  my  camp. 

But,  passing  near  the  Johnson  tent,  my  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  low  sobbing  within,  plainly 
the  voice  of  a  woman,  a  note  of  distress  no  man 
could  ignore.  Entering,  I  found  Mrs.  Johnson 
bleeding  and  weak  of  a  blow  on  the  head  from  a 
six-shooter,  and  only  semiconscious. 

Quickly  fetching  cold  water  from  the  stream, 
I  washed  and  bathed  her  head  until,  presently,  she 


232  THE  VANGUARD 

was  able  to  sit  up  and  tell  me  the  wretched  story  of 
her  troubles. 

An  hour  before,  while  her  husband  was  down 
by  the  river  fishing,  near  at  hand  but  out  of  sight 
below  the  steep  bank,  two  of  the  town  toughs  had 
entered  her  tent  and  grossly  insulted  her. 

At  her  first  scream  the  doctor  came  so  quickly 
on  the  scene  that,  entering  the  tent  behind  her  as 
sailants,  he  was  able  to  snatch  the  pistol  from 
the  belt  of  one  of  them  and  to  kill  the  other,  when 
the  disarmed  man  rushed  from  the  tent  and  fled. 
Directly  she  had  fainted. 

Thus  it  had  happened  that  when,  within  a  very 
few  minutes,  the  disarmed  thug  returned,  bringing 
his  gang  of  strangling  vigilantes,  they  had  caught 
the  doctor  off  guard,  engaged  in  trying  to  reassure 
her  of  their  safety,  and  had  seized  and  made  him 
a  prisoner. 

And  when  she,  conscious  again  but  still  weak, 
had  sought  to  fight  her  way  to  her  husband's  side, 
one  of  the  brutes  had  struck  her  with  his  pistol. 

That  was  about  enough  for  me.  For  a  woman's 
cry  for  help  could  land  me  in  trouble  up  to  my 
neck  a  lot  quicker  than  any  difficulties  of  my  own. 

And  I  reckon  I  would  have  gone  into  action 
anyway  without  any  special  appeal  from  her. 

Thus  I  fell  into  the  situation  easy  when  she 
begged  me  to  save  the  doctor,  finishing  by  offer 
ing  me  on  the  spot  one  thousand  dollars  in  bills, 
which  she  had  concealed  on  her  person,  and 
promised  me  four  thousand  more  on  the  safe  land 
ing  of  the  doctor  in  Salt  Lake. 


COX  REDIVIVUS  233 

Needy  as  I  was,  and  sure,  related  as  they  were 
to  the  biggest  Mormon  guns,  that  they  could  well 
enough  afford  it,  I  took  the  money,  and  lost  no 
time  getting  busy,  for  I  well  knew  the  stranglers 
would  give  the  doctor  short  shrift. 

For  Mrs.  Johnson  I  soon  got  asylum  in  a  camp 
of  bull-whackers  (ox-team  freighters)  near  by, 
men  I  knew  v/ould  treat  her  well  and  never  give 
her  up  as  long  as  they  could  pull  a  trigger. 

To  them  I  suggested  that  some  of  them  sit  in 
and  draw  cards  with  me  in  the  rescue  game,  but 
they  allowed  they  were  ready  enough  to  confront 
any  odds  to  protect  a  woman,  but  didn't  care  to 
attempt  a  break-in  on  that  vigilante  round-up  for 
any  man  who  was  nothing  to  them. 

So  it  was  up  to  me  to  go  it  alone,  and  I  did  my 
best. 

But  the  time  I  lost  searching  for  a  good  horse 
and  saddle  with  which  to  pack  away  the  doctor,  in 
case  I  had  luck  enough  to  rescue  him,  came  near 
costing  his  life. 

When  I  loped  into  town,  the  streets,  saloons, 
and  stores  around  its  centre  were  deserted,  for 
practically  the  entire  population  was  grouped  near 
the  north  end  of  the  main  street,  where  the  vigi 
lantes  were  massed  about  a  telegraph  pole,  over 
whose  cross-arm  the  stranglers  had  already  thrown 
the  free  end  of  the  rope  they  had  knotted  to  John 
son's  neck. 

The  way  I  broke  that  strangler  combination 
makes  me  laugh  to  this  day.  It  proved  so  easy, 
and  yet  I  much  fear  the  plain  truth  of  it  will  sound 


234  THE  VANGUARD 

to  the  average  reader  an  incredible  fable  —  or 
worse. 

Still,  there  was  little  of  the  heroics  in  my  crude 
strategy,  for  while  in  effect  I  charged  into  and 
through  several  hundred  people  at  full  gallop,  I 
figured  that  the  moment  powder  burned  the  rank 
and  file  of  the  townfolk  would  sprint  like  quarter 
horses  trying  to  get  out  of  range. 

And  I  felt  sure  that  if  they  did  not  leg  it  extra 
fast,  three-fourths  of  the  stranglers  would  be  apt 
to  catch  up  with  them,  for  not  one  in  a  hundred 
of  all  the  vigilantes  I  ever  saw  owned  nerve  enough 
to  stand  up  before  a  man  with  a  gun  in  his  hand. 

Nor  did  my  calculations  miscarry.  They 
worked  to  a  nicety,  in  all  but  the  fact  that  I  got 
rather  more  lead  in  my  system  than  I  had  counted 
on. 

Into  and  through  the  crowd  of  onlookers  I 
dashed,  scattering  them  like  sheep,  and  had 
smashed  in  among  the  group  of  stranglers  massed 
around  the  perch  they  had  picked  for  Johnson  be 
fore  they  had  time  to  realise  what  was  up.  Then, 
sure  that  my  lead  would  reach  none  but  those  who 
deserved  it,  I  cut  loose  with  my  six-shooters  right 
and  left. 

Melt?  They  just  faded  into  the  bald  grey 
buttes  of  the  local  scenery,  most  of  them  —  all  of 
them  for  sufficient  time  to  let  me  slash  Johnson's 
hands  free  and  pass  him  a  Winchester  as  he  swung 
into  the  saddle  of  my  spare  horse. 

But  the  moment  their  first  surprise  was  over 
there  were  enough  nervy  men  in  the  lot  to  give 


COX  REDIVIVUS  235 

us  all  the  trouble  we  could  get  along  with,  and 
no  more  had  the  Mormon  hit  the  saddle  than  we 
became  the  centre  of  a  hell  of  hail  it  was  a  mys 
tery  we  escaped. 

Nor  did  I  escape  scatheless;  my  left  arm  and 
right  foot  were  broken  before  we  had  run  two 
hundred  yards,  and  then,  worst  of  all,  down 
pitched  my  horse,  dead. 

But  Dr.  Johnson  proved  good  leather,  pulled 
up  instantly  and  dragged  me  up  behind  his  own 
saddle,  and  then  on  we  raced.  Indeed  he  played 
the  game  and  stuck  by  me  so  pluckily  that  I  bore 
him  no  grudge  for  the  pair  of  painful  and  badly 
crippling  wounds  he  had  been  the  means  of  get 
ting  me. 

If  there  was  mounted  pursuit  that  night,  we  saw 
none  of  it.  Guess  the  scare  thrown  into  them 
had  them  going  sideways  or  running  rings  'round 
themselves  for  an  hour  or  two,  anyway  long 
enough  to  enable  us  to  fade  away. 

The  extent  of  casualties  behind  me  of  course 
I  did  not  know  at  the  time,  but  shortly  thereafter 
I  learned  I  had  killed  outright  four  and  wounded 
six  of  the  Johnson  necktie  party.  Plenty,  I  re 
member  I  allowed,  to  assure  their  apprentice 
against  unfavourable  criticism  if  my  preceptors, 
old  Cox  and  Peach,  had  been  on  hand  to  see  the 
fun. 

After  a  wide  circle,  and  breaking  trail  as  well 
as  we  could,  late  the  next  day  we  made  it  to  the 
near  vicinity  of  Fort  Bridger,  where,  in  considera 
tion  of  a  pretty  athletic  touch  of  my  reward 


236  THE  VANGUARD 

money,  a  Mormon  family  gave  me  shelter  and 
care,  bringing  out  the  post  surgeon  to  dress  my 
wounds. 

And  there  the  doctor  left  me,  with  my  full 
consent,  to  push  on  into  Salt  Lake.  Helpless  to 
ride  myself,  still  my  right  pistol-hand  was  yet  in 
action;  and  if  a  bigger  posse  of  Green  Riverites 
came  in  on  me  than  I  could  take  care  of  single- 
handed,  two  of  us  could  not  expect  to  stand  them 
off.  So  it  was  for  me  just  a  question  of  keeping 
hid  out  until  able  to  fork  a  horse  again  and  hit  the 
trail. 

Several  days  passed  without  any  sign  of  pursuit, 
until  I  had  begun  to  think  the  luck  was  with  me. 

But  one  afternoon,  while  I  sat  at  a  window 
watching  the  road,  up  to  the  house  rode  three 
horsemen  whom  I  recognised  at  some  distance  as 
three  of  the  well-known  Green  River  stranglers, 
Ed  Gilmore,  Jack  Roe  and  Jim  Buck. 

Fortunate  for  me  it  was  that  I  sat  at  the  win 
dow,  for  it  gave  Mrs.  Mormon  No.  I  time  to 
practise  about  the  most  cunning  piece  of  hiding  I 
ever  knew  of. 

Having  no  window,  my  bedroom  was  very  dark, 
even  at  midday.  So  that  clever  Mrs.  Mormon 
No.  i  pulled  the  feather  tick  of  my  bed  away 
from  the  wall  sufficiently  far  to  enable  me  to 
cuddle  in  between  tick  and  wall,  and  then  she 
neatly  spread,  smoothed  down  and  tucked  in  the 
bed  quilts  until  nothing  showed  but  the  broad  and 
apparently  unoccupied  bed  surface.  This  done, 
she  passed  on  out  to  receive  our  visitors. 


COX  REDIVIVUS  237 

Into  the  house  they  roughly  tramped  without 
apology,  and  told  her  they  had  heard  a  wounded 
man  they  wanted  was  harboured  there. 

"  Wounded  man?  "  she  coolly  answered;  "  you 
are  crazy;  search  the  house,  if  you  want;  it's  not 
so  big  it  will  take  you  long." 

And  they  did.  First  they  groped  all  about  my 
bedroom,  and  finally  brought  a  candle  and  made 
a  careful  survey  under  my  bed;  but  they  didn't 
find  little  me,  cuddled  between  the  mattress  and 
the  wall. 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  they  were  in  the 
house,  I  suppose,  but  to  me  it  figured  up  a  whole 
bunch  of  eternities.  And  when,  the  stranglers 
having  ridden  away  to  a  safe  distance,  the  Mor 
mons  came  in  and  helped  me  out  of  the  stifling 
smother  of  my  hiding-place,  I  found  the  entire 
family  frightened  almost  speechless. 

Indeed,  the  good  woman  whose  quick  wit  had 
saved  me  had  not  much  more  than  consoled  her 
self  by  fainting  away,  than  Mrs.  Mormon  No.  2 
cried:  "Why,  man;  your  head  has  sure  turned 
white!  "  As,  in  truth,  I  was  astounded  to  find  it 
had. 

More  than  once  heretofore  I  have  had  occasion 
to  admit  that  I  have  never  been  able  to  come  up 
to  the  confronting  of  a  danger  without  being  pos 
sessed  by  an  awful  sense  of  scare  at  the  first  clatter 
of  trouble,  however  coolly  I  might  contrive  to 
jump  into  the  middle  of  it  later. 

And  it  is  up  to  me  now  to  admit  that  the  visit 
of  those  three  stranglers  gave  me  far  and  away 


238  THE  VANGUARD 

the  worst  scare  of  my  life;  perhaps  because  I  was 
so  comparatively  helpless,  still  feverish  and  sorely 
weakened  by  my  wounds. 

Nevertheless,  it  would  have  been  anything  but 
healthy  for  them  to  pull  the  bed  quilts  off  me,  for 
all  the  time  they  were  prowling  around  the  house 
I  lay  with  one  of  my  pistols  on  my  breast  and  the 
other  in  my  right  hand,  at  full  cock  both. 

The  worst  wounds  heal  sometime  —  when  they 
don't  do  for  you  the  first  rattle  out  of  the  box  — 
and  finally  a  day  came  that  I  was  able  to  mount 
and  ride  away,  and  it  became  the  occasion  of 
about  as  severe  a  test  of  my  manhood  as  any  I 
have  had  to  confront. 

Being  a  poor  man,  my  Mormon  host  had  only 
three  wives,  but  that  little  three  of  a  Mormon 
kind  was  quite  adequate  to  demonstrate  how  dif 
ficult  the  Mormons  find  it  to  maintain  a  satisfac 
tory  majority  of  contentment  and  happiness  among 
a  plurality  of  helpmeets.  At  least,  so  it  seemed 
to  me. 

Anyway,  the  fact  is  that  Mrs.  Mormon  No.  i, 
the  dear  woman  whose  wit  saved  me  from  a  proba 
bly  fatal  conflict  with  the  stranglers,  appeared  to 
have  conceived  an  attachment  for  me  that,  while 
appreciated,  had  certainly  not  been  courted. 

For  all  through  the  years  of  my  wanderings  the 
mischievous  face  of  the  Michigan  maid  who  had 
outlawed  me  was  ever  before  me.  The  flame 
the  little  forest  imp  had  lighted  in  my  heart  still 
burned  as  fiercely  as  in  the  days  I  used  to  pass 
Bessie  McVicker  on  our  woodland  paths,  although 


COX  REDIVIVUS  239 

I  had  not  heard  from  her  in  all  those  years,  for 
to  communicate  with  home  I  had  not  ventured. 

Moreover,  my  Mormon  host  was  protected 
from  any  poaching  by  me  in  yet  another  way; 
for  while,  to  be  sure,  I  had  paid  him  liberally  for 
the  shelter  he  had  afforded  me,  I  was  not  one 
to  deal  treachery  to  a  man  whose  salt  I  had 
eaten. 

Thus  when,  inspired  measurably  by  a  real  at 
tachment  for  me,  but  very  likely  in  still  larger 
measure  by  her  disgust  of  her  situation  in  that 
household,  No.  I  begged  me  to  carry  her  away 
with  me,  I  was  placed  in  a  dilemma  of  the  worst 
sort;  for  it  was  really  to  her  more  than  to  all  the 
others  I  owed  my  escape. 

And  when  at  length  I  rode  away  alone,  it  was 
with  a  sore  heart  for  a  weary  woman  to  whom  I 
certainly  owed  a  heavy  unpaid  debt. 

After  a  most  painful  journey,  for  I  was  still 
weak  and  suffering  from  my  wounds,  riding  into 
the  suburbs  of  Salt  Lake  late  one  afternoon,  I  saw 
a  man  playing  in  his  garden  with  a  group  of  chil 
dren  in  a  hearty  sort  of  way  that  inspired  me  to 
believe  I  might  trust  him. 

So  dismounting  and  introducing  myself,  I 
frankly  told  him  my  story,  and  asked  him  to  give 
me  asylum.  And  once  again  I  found  my  judgment 
proved  trustworthy,  for  he  took  me  in,  rigged 
me  up  a  bed  in  his  cellar,  and  for  two  months  fed 
me  up  and  nursed  me  back  to  strength. 

From  their  kinfolk,  the  Kimballs,  my  host  got 
the  address  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  wife,  and  they 


240  THE  VANGUARD 

used  to  come  and  visit  me  of  nights  and  were 
very  kind. 

But  they  told  me  frankly  they  just  could  not 
pay  me  the  additional  four  thousand  dollars  they 
had  promised,  for,  after  our  escape,  the  Green 
River  thugs  had  completely  looted  his  tent  and 
wagons  and  had  ruined  him. 

So,  still  having  left  a  few  hundreds  of  the  thou 
sand  they  had  paid  me,  a  bigger  cargo  of  money 
than  I  was  accustomed  to  packing  away,  I  told 
them  to  forget  it,  and  promised  that  I  would  also. 

At  that  time  Mormon  hatred  of  Gentiles  was 
fierce  as  ever,  and  any  Gentile  frequenters  of  the 
Salt  Lake  saloons  indiscreet  enough  to  flash  a  fat 
roll  of  money  were  lucky  to  escape  no  worse  than 
robbery  at  the  hands  of  the  police  of  the  city. 

Miners  from  the  near-by  diggings,  or  en  route 
east  from  the  Alder  Gulch  or  Nevada  camps, 
were  the  principal  victims.  Robberies  and  mur 
ders  by  the  police  were  of  at  least  weekly  occur 
rence.  It  was  mind  your  eye  for  Gentiles  walking 
Salt  Lake  streets  of  nights  in  those  days. 

But  while  my  confinement  in  hiding  in  my  host's 
cellar  became  almost  intolerable,  only  at  night  was 
it  prudent  for  me  to  go  abroad,  for  the  Green 
Riverites  had  hung  up  a  reward  for  my  head  big 
enough  to  make  it  feel  to  me  mighty  unsafe. 


—  XIII  — 

EXIT   COX 

ONE  dark  night,  I  slipped  out  of  Salt 
Lake  headed  for  Spanish  Fork,  to 
whose  Mormon  bishop  I  had  a  letter. 
And  that  I  was  able  to  leave  espe 
cially  well  mounted  and  armed  was  due  to  the 
kindness  and  generosity  of  a  lady,  then  sixteen, 
now  presiding  with  dignity  over  one  of  the  finest 
mansions  in  Salt  Lake  and  noted  far  and  wide  for 
her  noble  charities. 

What  with  doctors'  bills  and  extra  heavy  sub 
sidies  to  my  host,  to  make  sure  he  did  not  betray 
me  for  the  reward  out  for  me,  dead  or  alive,  had 
brought  my  funds  uncomfortably  low,  although 
how  she  found  it  out  I  never  could  imagine. 

But  learn  or  suspect  it  she  did,  and,  God  bless 
her,  insisted  on  mounting  and  arming  me  as  I  had 
never  been  outfitted  before. 

When  we  parted,  the  evening  before  my  depar 
ture,  she  begged  me  to  return  for  her  whenever 
the  hue  and  cry  for  my  scalp  should  subside,  and 
vowed  she  would  wait  for  me  —  and  it's  a  million 
to  one  I  would  have  gone  back  for  her,  let  rewards 
and  hue  and  cry  be  what  they  might,  but  for  my 
devotion  to  my  maid  of  the  Michigan  woodlands. 

For  next  to  Bessie  McVicker,  she  was  the  one 
241 


242  THE  VANGUARD 

woman  I  have  ever  met  who  might  have  won  me 
from  my  wild  wanderings  and  run  no  risk  letting 
me  out  of  the  home  pasture  without  hobbles. 

After  leaving  Spanish  Fork  I  passed  on  through 
Beaver  toward  the  mines.  Shortly  before  reach 
ing  White  Pine,  Nevada,  I  came  upon  a  lake,  sur 
rounded  by  fine  hay  meadows,  took  possession  of 
it,  and  turned  to  making  hay. 

I  still  had  a  little  money  left,  and  as  plenty  of 
men  were  travelling  the  road  who  needed  work, 
I  was  able  to  put  up  several  fine  stacks. 

Finally,  my  cash  resources  converted  into  hay, 
I  rode  into  Shermantown  to  market  it.  The 
quartz  mills  were  in  full  blast,  times  booming  — 
but  I  lacked  the  ready  to  move  a  single  load  of 
hay. 

I  found  no  difficulty,  however,  in  making  a  deal 
with  a  local  merchant  to  provide  the  funds  needed 
to  move  my  hay  to  town.  And  barely  was  the 
last  load  delivered  than  a  severe  early  autumn 
storm  came  on,  catching  over  three  hundred  mules 
in  town.  That  enabled  my  merchant  partner, 
who  was  to  manage  sales,  to  dispose  of  the  lot  at 
sky-high  prices. 

Of  the  proceeds,  I  only  drew  what  I  needed  for 
expenses,  my  partner  depositing  the  balance  in  his 
own  name  in  the  Bank  of  Nevada. 

Since  in  Nevada  I  was  going  under  another 
name  than  my  own,  I  had  felt  tolerably  safe.  But 
my  sense  of  security  was  soon  rudely  broken  when, 
shortly  after  my  arrival  in  Shermantown,  a  friend 
told  me  one  of  the  Green  Riverites,  who  had  been 


EXIT  COX  243 

a  participant  in  my  fight  to  rescue  Dr.  Johnson, 
was  in  Hamilton,  a  small  mining  camp  distant 
two  and  a  half  miles  from  Shermantown,  and  that 
I  had  been  recognised  and  could  be  sure  he  would 
be  making  a  call  on  me. 

The  man's  name  was  Sam  Turner,  himself  a 
hard  man  with  five  notches  on  his  gun.  And  since 
I  also  learned  that  in  our  fight  he  had  received 
a  shot  in  the  stomach  not  likely  to  inspire  him 
with  much  love  of  me,  I  engaged  a  man  to  watch 
his  movements  and  report  them  to  me,  and  kept 
my  own  eyes  a  plenty  peeled. 

Nothing  happened  for  a  few  days,  not  until 
one  morning  my  scout  advised  me  that  Sam  was 
in  town,  getting  his  mule  shod  at  the  blacksmith 
shop,  making  as  good  an  opportunity  as  one  could 
ask  to  arrange  our  differences. 

As  I  entered  the  smithy,  Sam  stood  by  the  forge, 
holding  his  mule,  and  I  noted  the  Winchester  I 
had  been  told  he  always  carried  he  had  incau 
tiously  left  near  the  door. 

"  Sam,"  I  remarked  as  I  entered,  "  you  know 
we  have  both  been  hurt.  Personally,  I  don't  want 
any  more  trouble.  Let  me  alone  and  I  will  be 
only  too  glad  to  let  you  alone." 

As  I  was  speaking,  I  had  noticed  his  eyes  shift 
ing  calculatingly  toward  his  rifle,  and  added, 
"  You'll  never  reach  it,  Sam.  I've  come  in  good 
faith  to  beg  you  to  call  quits  with  me;  you  can  af 
ford  it  if  I  can." 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  honest?"  he  answered;  "  I 
heard  you'd  been  threatening  to  kill  me  on  sight." 


244  THE  VANGUARD 

"  Nonsense,  Sam,  I'm  as  tired  of  fighting  and 
hiding  as  you  yourself  ought  to  be,"  I  assured  him. 
"  Before  all  these  people  I  promise  never  even  to 
speak  ill  of  you,  and  here's  my  hand  on  it."  We 
shook,  and  met  frequently  thereafter  in  peace. 

But  my  stay  in  Shermantown  was  brief.  In  a 
few  weeks  I  was  forced  out  on  the  road  again. 
My  ill-luck  at  trying  to  accumulate  a  little  stake 
never  quit  my  trail.  And  there  in  Nevada,  it  was 
almost  the  impossible  that  happened.  The  Bank 
of  Nevada  broke  —  ruining  my  merchant  partner, 
as  well  as  stripping  me  of  my  share  of  the  hard- 
won  hay  money. 

It  came  pretty  tough  on  me,  of  course,  but  I 
was  so  used  to  blows  of  that  sort  that  I  lost  no 
time  mourning  over  it.  Instead,  having  my  out 
fit  left  and  a  little  grub,  I  pulled  out  for  the  Pat 
terson  district,  and  there  remained  prospecting  un 
til  my  flour  and  sowbelly  gave  out,  when  again  it 
was  pike  for  me. 

And  for  once  fortune  smiled,  to  the  extent  of 
passing  me  a  good  job  and  bringing  me  again 
into  comradeship  with  my  old  preceptor,  George 
Cox. 

Quite  by  chance,  I  ran  into  the  expedition  of 
Lieutenant  George  M.  Wheeler,  marching  south 
to  engage  in  survey  work  along  the  boundary  line 
between  Arizona  and  Nevada.  With  him  I 
found  Cox,  employed  as  horse-shoer,  and  was  my 
self  engaged  as  chief  packer,  in  charge  of  forty 
pack  mules. 

Most  of  Wheeler's  work  was  in  and  along  the 


EXIT  COX  245 

Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado  River,  the  first 
survey  and  about  the  first  exploration  of  it  ever 
made,  and  for  all  of  the  party  it  was  a  season  of 
extraordinary  hardship,  always  on  scant  water 
and  short  feed  for  our  beasts,  much  of  the  time 
in  heat  Death  Valley  itself  could  not  badly  dis 
count. 

And  since  our  field  was  in  then  hostile  Navajo 
country,  and  the  expedition  was  a  government 
affair,  we  had  a  cavalry  escort,  an  escort  that  ulti 
mately  gave  us  more  trouble  than  the  Indians  — 
or,  rather,  some  of  the  escort  did. 

Unknown  to  the  lieutenant,  among  the  enlisted 
men  of  the  escort  were  three  notorious  bandits, 
enlisted  under  assumed  names  in  escape  of  a  pur 
suit  for  their  crimes. 

The  worst  of  them  was  known  as  "  Johnny  Be 
hind  the  Rock,"  as  cold-blooded  an  assassin  as  any 
those  lawless  days  developed. 

A  few  weeks  before  their  enlistment,  they  had 
held  up  a  Mormon  wagon  train  on  the  road  from 
Beaver  to  White  Pine,  killing  several  of  the  men, 
looting  the  wagons.  Hard  pressed  by  the  Mor 
mons,  they  had  sought  service  in  the  army  for 
sanctuary. 

But  birds  of  their  vulture  feather  could  not 
long  repress  their  predatory  bent,  much  less  abide 
the  restraint  of  army  discipline,  and  no  more  were 
we  a  week's  march  south  of  the  Mormon  settle 
ments  and  near  the  Arizona  border  than  the  three 
of  them  dropped  into  their  old  tricks. 

They  jumped  one  night  with  all  the  mules  of 


246  THE  VANGUARD 

our  pack-train — set  the  entire  expedition  afoot,  as 
far  as  transport  of  supplies  was  concerned. 

And  that  was  where  old  Cox  and  I  got  into 
action  again  together  (and  for  the  last  time,  as  it 
turned  out) ,  although  the  pursuit  of  them  in  that 
terrible  desert  land  was  not  a  diversion  we  were 
hankering  after. 

Lieutenant  Wheeler  detailed  us  to  trail  them 
and  recover  the  mules;  and  since  neither  of  us 
had  ever  balked  at  an  order  of  our  commanding 
officer  in  the  old  service,  we  thought  it  was  too  late 
to  begin. 

Helped  by  the  unlimited  change  of  mounts  they 
were  driving  along  with  them,  and  with  almost 
a  full  night's  start  of  us,  we  knew  it  was  useless 
to  chase  them  at  a  racing  pace. 

So  we  took  their  trail  at  an  easy  jog,  much  as 
if  we  were  starting  in  to  walk  down  a  band  of 
wild  horses,  confident  of  dropping  in  on  them 
whenever  they  got  far  enough  away  to  feel  safe 
in  breaking  their  racing  flight  and  taking  longer 
and  less  carefully  guarded  rest. 

West  they  bore,  and  on  after  them  we  fol 
lowed,  at  the  best  pace  our  horses  could  maintain 
and  not  wear  them  out;  on  through  infernal  desert 
heat,  stifled  by  constant  sand  storms,  our  lips 
cracked  and  swollen  and  throats  parched  for  the 
water  we  seldom  got;  on  for  six  days  and  nights, 
with  only  such  intervals  of  rest  as  our  beasts  abso 
lutely  needed. 

But  at  last,  one  evening,  from  the  bluffs  above, 
we  saw  them  pushing  out  into  Death  Valley  from 


EXIT  COX  247 

the  sink  of  Furnace  Creek,  and  planned  to  strike 
them  at  the  midnight  rest  camp  they  were  sure  to 
make  in  the  desert. 

The  night  favoured  us  with  a  quarter  moon, 
that  enabled  us  to  follow  their  trail  at  a  good  gait 
that  had  brought  us  within  less  than  a  mile  of 
them  by  the  time  they  had  lighted  a  little  fire  to 
boil  their  coffee. 

By  half  an  hour  later  they  had  fallen  to  us 
easy. 

Stalking  them  gingerly  through  the  darkness, 
the  moon  having  gone  down,  we  actually  stepped 
into  the  fire-light  and  had  them  covered  before 
they  realised  trouble  was  impending. 

And  when  Cox  quietly  remarked,  u  Mr.  Johnny 
Behind  the  Rock,  I  believe,"  the  thug  growled: 

"  No ;  not  this  evenin' ;  it's  Johnny  Under  a 
Rope,  I  reckon  " ;  and  all  three  quit,  gave  up, 
without  any  try  for  a  struggle.  Of  which  peace 
ful  surrender  we  were  none  too  glad,  for  they 
had  given  us  such  a  cruel  hard  chase  that  we  would 
have  welcomed  an  excuse  to  put  them  where  they 
could  do  no  more  harm. 

And  by  the  way  those  coyotes  yelped  and 
whimpered  by  turns  on  the  long  return  journey  to 
Wheeler's  camp,  I  think  they  would  have  found 
death  a  relief  from  the  punishment  we  gave  them. 

With  abundant  fresh  mules  to  shift  saddle  to, 
we  not  only  raced  back  with  scarcely  any  rest,  but 
compelled  the  three  to  make  the  entire  journey 
without  their  saddles,  each  with  hands  bound  be 
hind  his  back  and  lashed  astride  of  a  bareback 


248  THE  VANGUARD 

mule.     It  was  Johnny  on  a  Saw  Horse  for  our 
bandit  and  his  mates  on  that  trip. 

In  fact,  the  Wheeler  expedition  was  the  dryest 
and  about  the  poorest  counterfeit  of  a  picnic  it 
has  been  my  misfortune  to  get  mixed  up  with. 
Few  weeks  passed  that  some  of  us  did  not  get 
grilled  in  one  way  or  another. 

Late  in  the  season,  Lieutenant  Wheeler  and 
Lieutenant  Lockwood,  who  later  perished  on 
the  De  Long  arctic  expedition,  near  the  mouth 
of  the  Lena  River,  had  their  turn,  while  we  were 
working  out  the  maze  of  profound  gorges  west 
of  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado,  a  waterless 
region  hot  as  the  devil's  pet  furnace. 

One  night  the  pair  of  them  did  not  return  to 
camp,  nor  by  morning  had  they  appeared,  not 
withstanding  we  kept  a  big  signal  fire  burning  on 
a  tall  butte  above  the  camp  and  fired  signal  shots 
for  them  at  intervals  throughout  the  night. 

Plainly  they  must  be  lost,  or  victims  of  some 
accident,  for  the  country  was  so  dry  that  we  were 
out  of  any  usual  range  of  the  Navajos.  What 
ever  the  untoward  happening,  they  were  bound  to 
be  in  desperate  straits,  for  they  had  left  camp  with 
a  single  canteen  apiece. 

So  at  dawn,  as  soon  as  it  was  light  enough  to 
see,  I  took  their  trail  alone,  carrying  several 
filled  canteens;  no  use  taking  any  of  our  escort, 
for,  after  finding  them,  the  whole  problem  was 
one  of  water. 

Their  trail  was  easily  enough  picked  up,  and  I 
followed  it  at  a  gallop  for  several  hours,  bar  oc- 


EXIT  COX  249 

casional  jogging  to  rest  my  horse,  leading  off  gen 
erally  into  the  south,  winding  down  into  abysmal 
gorges,  climbing  lofty  butte  crests,  on  still  south 
until  I  came  to  a  semi-flinty  clay  formation  much 
like  the  floor  of  the  Dakota  Bad  Lands,  so  hard, 
I  believe,  that  not  even  a  loose  locomotive  would 
leave  any  sign  crossing  it. 

A  wide  cross-cut  to  east  and  west  of  the  point 
their  trail  entered  this  flinty-floored  region  failed 
of  showing  me  any  sign  they  had  returned  north. 

So  it  was  right  ahead  of  me  they  had  gotten 
tangled  up  in  that  infernal  formation,  where,  their 
mule  hoofs  leaving  no  sign,  once  they  got  lost  it 
was  stay  lost  for  keeps,  back-tracking  being  utterly 
impossible. 

I  may  as  well  admit  it  took  about  all  the  guts 
I  could  muster  to  pass  on  out  upon  the  flint,  for 
they  were  both  as  capable  men  as  I,  and  if  they 
could  get  lost  there,  so  could  I. 

But  out  there  somewhere,  and  very  likely  not 
far  away,  my  chiefs  were  doubtless  perishing  for 
water,  their  lives  forfeit  if  I  failed  them.  So  on  I 
bore  another  hour  and  a  half,  as  nearly  a  south 
course  as  I  could  keep. 

The  country  such  a  maze  of  winding  main  and 
side  canons  that  one  was  boxing  the  compass  every 
few  hundred  yards,  but  I  went  on,  in  hope  of 
reaching  soft  formation  where  I  could  pick  up 
their  sign. 

But  no  use ;  as  far  as  I  could  see  ahead  stretched 
the  pale  grey-dun  of  the  flint  formation !  So  the 
afternoon  I  spent  on  a  big  circle  that  carried  me 


250  THE  VANGUARD 

another  hour  to  the  south,  working  from  one 
ridge  top  to  another,  spying  out  the  gorges  as  well 
as  I  could,  shooting  now  and  then,  but  without  re 
sult. 

Night  come,  I  took  to  the  tallest  butte  near, 
there  built  and  fed  throughout  the  night  a  signal 
fire,  occasionally  firing  a  pistol  shot. 

By  morning  my  own  condition  was  desperate, 
my  horse  cruelly  drawn  of  flank  by  thirst,  in 
capable  of  carrying  me  more  than  two  or  three 
hours  at  the  most  through  the  stress  of  the  blazing 
morning  sun. 

And  then,  the  horse  dead  beat,  all  the  water  I 
carried  could  no  more  than  suffice  to  support  one 
man  back  to  camp,  travelling  afoot  —  in  event 
he  was  able  to  keep  a  true  course  through  the 
mazes  that  must  be  crossed. 

Having  still  my  bit  of  nerve  left,  I  followed 
a  ridge  crest  that  led  west  two  or  three  miles  to 
a  twin  butte  of  the  one  I  had  spent  the  night  on. 

Fortunately,  I  was  to  be  well  rewarded;  for, 
come  to  the  butte's  summit,  my  sharp  questing 
eyes  soon  picked  up  four  still,  dark  figures  at  the 
bottom  of  a  deep  ravine  that  lay  at  the  foot  of  its 
south  slope,  partly  sheltered  beneath  a  projecting 
ledge  from  the  blazing  sun. 

Leaving  my  horse  staked  where  there  was  a  bit 
of  browsing,  and  moistening  his  throat  with  a 
meagre  swallow  from  one  of  the  canteens,  I  slung 
the  others  over  my  shoulder,  and  clambered  down 
to  what  I  feared  would  prove  a  bunch  of  dead 
ones. 


EXIT  COX  251 

But  on  nearing  them  I  was  delighted  to  hear  a 
feeble  hail  that  took  me  the  remaining  distance  in 
long  bounds. 

It  only  needed  a  glance  to  see  that  they  were 
pretty  well  across  the  crest  of  the  last  divide  of 
life,  the  two  mules  down,  weakly  panting,  the  two 
lieutenants  gaunt,  wild-eyed  and  incapable  of  con 
nected  speech. 

But  when,  presently,  the  water  revived  them, 
there  was  no  particular  story  they  had  to  tell  of 
their  mishap,  except  that,  venturing  out  across  the 
flint,  they  had  become  rattled,  had  lost  all  sense 
of  direction,  and  had  wandered  aimlessly  on  and 
on  until,  their  slender  supply  of  water  gone,  their 
beasts  spent  and  themselves  incapable  of  further 
effort,  they  had  laid  down  within  the  shelter  of  the 
ledge. 

My  little  lot  of  food  and  water  did  not  last 
long  with  that  parched  and  famished  pair,  although 
up  to  reaching  them  I  had  hardly  touched  either, 
and  while  I  myself,  I  realised,  was  incapable  of 
covering  half  the  distance  back  to  camp  without 
water,  the  two  lieutenants  were  too  weak  to 
march  a  mile. 

Thus  I  figured  our  only  hope  lay  in  signalling 
our  position,  on  the  chance  another  search  party 
might  come  near.  Cox,  I  knew,  would  never  let 
me  die  out  there  on  the  flint  without  a  man's  effort 
to  get  to  me. 

And  so  it  proved.  I  scrambled  laboriously  back 
to  the  butte  crest  and  started  a  tiny  fire,  now  and 
then  throwing  up  smoke  signals.  By  mid-after- 


252  THE  VANGUARD 

noon  Cox  slipped  up  on  me  out  of  a  deep  gorge 
to  the  west,  so  quietly  that  I  only  noted  his  ap 
proach  when  my  ear  caught  the  clink  of  mule 
shoes  on  the  flint. 

As  usual,  moreover,  he  had  overlooked  no  bets, 
for  he  was  driving  ahead  of  him  four  spare  mules 
bearing  a  little  food  and  decorated  with  canteens 
until  they  looked  like  a  betasselled  Andean  recua. 
And  back  to  our  camp  the  canny  old  scout  led  us, 
straight  as  a  crow  flies. 

For  this  rescue  Cox  and  I  were  given  honoura 
ble  mention  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  by 
Lieutenant  Wheeler,  and,  what  shortly  came  far 
more  handy  to  us,  we  were  paid  a  handsome 
bounty  for  the  capture  of  Johnny  Behind  the  Rock 
and  the  recovery  of  the  government  mules  — 
handy  because  we  needed  it  for  a  sudden  geta 
way. 

In  Pioche  for  supplies,  with  several  of  the  es 
cort  and  ourselves  dressed  in  army  blue,  Cox  and 
I  happened  to  be  near  when  one  of  our  men  was 
attacked  by  six  men,  artists  at  both  hard  and  soft 
touches,  ready  enough  to  kill  where  they  found  a 
bank  roll  they  could  not  get  with  a  wheedle  or  a 
cheat. 

No  more  was  the  row  started  than  Cox  re 
ceived  a  stray  shot  in  the  shoulder.  Then  we 
agreed  it  was  about  time  to  take  a  hand  ourselves, 
with  the  result  that  when,  a  few  seconds  later,  the 
battle  was  over  and  Cox  and  I  were  safely  away, 
two  lay  dead  under  a  wagon  and  three  were  hunt 
ing  a  doctor. 


EXIT  COX  253 

While  the  affair  was  purely  one  of  self-defence, 
Pioche  was  no  good  place  to  stand  trial,  so  we  felt 
forced  to  take  French  leave  of  Lieutenant  Wheel 
er's  expedition  and  burn  the  Ruby  Valley  trail  for 
Elko. 

And  this  Pioche  business  proved  the  last  trans 
action  of  the  old  firm  of  Peach,  Cox  &  Stocking, 
for  at  Elko  Cox  and  I  parted,  never  to  meet  again, 
luckily  for  me. 

Cox,  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  record,  captured  a 
few  years  later  with  a  big  string  of  government 
mules  whose  possession  he  could  not  satisfactorily 
explain,  was  shot  by  a  platoon  of  black  troopers 
by  order  of  General  Hatch;  an  end  I  had  long 
felt  his  desperate,  utterly  reckless  character  was 
sure  to  bring  him  to  sooner  or  later. 

But  of  Cox  it  is  only  truth  to  add  that  his  entire 
career  bore  infinitely  more  to  his  credit  than  to 
his  discredit,  for  throughout  the  many  years  he 
was  ranging  the  vast  wild  region  east  and  west 
of  the  Rockies,  no  single  man  of  the  vanguard 
of  the  old  frontier  annually  harvested  a  bigger 
crop  of  thoroughly  bad  men  than  did  he. 

Continuing  west  to  the  Pacific,  after  parting 
with  Cox  at  Sacramento,  I  bought  an  interest  in 
a  small  business  with  the  proceeds  of  the  mule 
bounty  Lieutenant  Wheeler  had  paid  me.  And 
what  do  you  think?  Inside  of  six  weeks  my  little 
show  burned  to  the  ground,  leaving  me  nearly  as 
flat  strapped  as  had  my  previous  ventures  in  wood, 
meat  shooting,  and  hay! 

So  perhaps  some  one  can  explain  how  I  might 


254  THE  VANGUARD 

escape  the  wandering  life,  but  I  doubt  it.  Surely, 
I  tried  hard  enough,  but  no  more  would  I  get  a 
new  set  of  pegs  driven  than  pop  would  go  the 
tent  ropes  and  out  on  another  long  trail  I'd  be 
driven. 

Thus  the  spring  of  1869  found  me  trailing  east 
again,  bound  for  Montana.  Fort  Benton,  which 
I  had  picked  as  my  destination,  at  practically  the 
head  of  navigation  of  the  upper  Missouri,  had 
then  for  many  years  been  the  most  important  and 
famous  Indian  trading-post  and  centre  of  distri 
bution  of  merchandise  for  the  big  mining  camps 
lying  to  the  west  of  it. 

It  was  still  in  high  prosperity,  its  then  principal 
peltry  trade  being  in  buffalo  robes  and  skins  of 
the  big  grey  wolves  that  followed  the  vast  buf 
falo  herds  in  thousands,  fattening  on  their  young 
and  on  carcasses  left  by  the  red  hunters. 

The  buffalo  robes  were  then  chiefly  the  product 
of  the  chase  of  the  wild  tribesmen,  the  Bloods, 
Blackfeet,  Crees,  Piegans,  for  which  roving  white 
traders  exchanged  powder  and  lead,  whisky  and 
blankets,  at  what  I  am  afraid  would  now  be  re 
garded  as  scandalously  high  profits. 

Still,  in  a  way  they  earned  big  money,  for  war 
parties  of  young  bucks  were  always  out  that  few 
trading  outfits  escaped  paying  heavy  toll  to. 

But  most  of  the  wolves  fell  to  "  wolfers,"  small 
bands  of  white  hunters  who  traded  with  the  tribes 
as  opportunity  offered  and  put  in  the  rest  of  their 
time  trapping  and  poisoning  wolves.  Sometimes 
they  shot  buffaloes  and  poisoned  their  carcasses, 


EXIT  COX  255 

but  preferably,  where  there  was  timber,  they 
bored  shallow  holes  in  logs  and  filled  the  holes 
so  made  with  tallow  lightly  charged  with  strychnin. 

Wolfing  looked  good  to  me  and  in  it  I  engaged, 
the  first  season  bringing  in  to  Benton  eleven  hun 
dred  wolf-skins  and  all  the  buffalo  robes  I  could 
pack. 

Two  more  seasons  I  ranged  between  Benton 
and  the  Whoop-Up  country  as  a  wolfer  and 
trader,  with  now  and  then  a  brush  with  some  raid 
ing  war  party,  and  with,  at  last,  such  good  luck 
that  in  1871  I  was  able  to  make  a  start  down 
river  on  the  steamer  Far  West  with  a  little  capi 
tal  that  reached  rather  comfortably  into  four  fig 
ures. 

The  boat  was  crowded  with  a  mixed  company 
that  included  several  ladies,  a  lot  of  my  wolfing 
friends,  and  a  young  army  captain  who  came  near 
forcing  me  to  win  promotion  for  some  of  his 
juniors  —  for  he  challenged  me  to  a  duel  which 
I  am  afraid  he  would  not  have  lived  long  enough 
to  regret,  if  it  had  come  off. 

He  had  been  in  command  of  Fort  Benton  for 
two  years,  and  the  dignity  of  his  rank  and  com 
mand  had  led  him  to  esteem  himself  a  lot  higher 
than  anybody  else  did.  In  fact,  he  was  not  con 
tent  to  plainly  show  his  contempt  for  all  of  us  of 
the  trading  and  wolfing  guild,  but  lost  no  chance 
to  say  abusive  things  that  surely  seemed  meant  to 
hurt  and  provoke  us. 

So  when,  one  day  at  dinner,  he  was  loudly  de 
claiming  that  during  his  two  years'  command  at 


256  THE  VANGUARD 

Benton  he  could  not  remember  meeting  a  single 
civilian  he  regarded  as  a  gentleman,  I  could  not 
help  quietly  remarking,  "  There  goes  a  kick 
from  a  government  mule  that  ought  to  be  branded 
1 1.  C. !  '  "  I.  C."  signifying  "  inspected  and 
condemned,"  as  unfit  for  service. 

The  roar  of  laughter  that  went  up  from  our 
party  of  diners  so  infuriated  the  captain  that  he 
left  the  table  and  challenged  me  to  go  ashore  at 
the  next  landing  and  fight  him,  and  while  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  get  out  of  it,  I  saw  no  recourse 
but  to  accept. 

But  Montana  was  all  on  the  good  side  of  luck 
for  me  in  this  duel  affair.  So  much  so  that  when 
the  boat  stopped  for  fuel  at  the  Painted  Woods, 
and  the  hostile  captain  was  the  first  to  start  ashore 
over  the  gang-plank,  somehow  an  end  of  the  plank 
slipped  and  down  it  he  tobogganed  into  the  swirl 
ing,  muddy  current  of  the  river! 

Fished  out  by  the  deck-hands  to  a  chorus  of  de 
lighted  yells  from  most  of  the  men  aboard,  he 
strode  dripping  and  cursing  to  his  cabin,  while  I 
went  ashore  with  my  war-sack  and  other  belong 
ings,  and  there  stopped  for  the  next  boat,  to  avoid 
chance  of  further  trouble  with  him. 

Arrived  at  Bismarck,  Dakota,  I  found  it  yet 
another  Cheyenne,  run  by  a  gang  of  sure-thing 
hold-ups  and  thugs,  for  the  place  was  all  abustle 
with  the  first  big  rush  of  settlers  into  that  section 
of  the  northwest,  and  wherever  tenderfeet  were 
thickest  thugs  throve  fattest. 

Still,  it  struck  me  as  a  good  place  for  the  em- 


EXIT  COX  257 

ployment  of  my  wolf  money,  so  I  built  and  opened 
a  hotel  there,  taking  as  a  partner  a  married  man 
whose  wife  could  run  the  kitchen  end  of  the  show, 
as  I  was  not  flattering  myself  that  my  life  in  mov 
ing-camp  had  trained  me  to  win  any  prizes  as  a 
fancy-dish  designer. 

And  there,  too,  I  soon  got  so  often  and  so  much 
occupied  with  other  people's  troubles  that  I  sel 
dom  had  much  time  to  run  a  hotel,  or,  indeed, 
any  business  that  called  for  camping  on  its  safety- 
valve.  One  or  two  incidents  will  be  sufficiently 
typical  of  my  life  in  Bismarck. 

An  old  acquaintance  of  mine  named  Hayes,  in 
a  fight  got  the  better  of  one  of  the  tough  fra 
ternity,  and,  beset  by  a  crowd  of  his  victim's 
friends,  he  took  refuge  in  a  gambling  house,  from 
which  roisterers  and  players  quickly  fled  as  the 
mob  began  surrounding  the  building. 

While  not  a  close  friend  of  mine,  the  odds  were 
so  heavy  against  Hayes  I  felt  I  ought  to  take  a 
hand,  but  it  could  not  help  my  hotel  business  any 
to  antagonise  the  mob.  Strategy,  rather  than  any 
head-on,  butt-in,  must  be  the  play,  and,  happily, 
I  lighted  on  a  winner. 

And  yet  the  strategy  was  very  simple.  After 
having  fetched  near  at  hand  the  fastest  team  in 
town,  hitched  to  a  light  buggy,  I  sent  two  men  in 
front  of  the  gambling  house  ordered  to  empty 
their  pistols  rapidly;  and  the  moment  the  guards 
from  the  rear  and  sides  had  run  to  the  front,  I 
kicked  in  the  rear  door,  got  Hayes  out,  rushed 
him  into  the  waiting  buggy,  and  whipped  away. 


258  THE  VANGUARD 

That  was  all.  Sure  enough  tiny  dust  clouds 
flew  up  thick  around  us,  but  none  of  their  shots 
scored. 

In  three  days  I  had  landed  Hayes  safely  in  Fort 
Rice,  and  was  back  at  my  hotel  in  Bismarck, 
where  the  gang  lost  no  more  than  a  day  or  two 
picking  a  bruiser  they  believed  able  to  beat  me 
to  a  finish.  A  crowd  of  them  invaded  the  bar  of 
my  hotel,  locked  the  doors,  and,  before  I  realised 
what  was  up,  the  slugger  was  at  me. 

But,  my  training  under  Peach  and  later  practice 
on  my  own  account,  made  it  no  difficult  matter  for 
me  to  knock  their  champion  so  nearly  into  the 
great  thereafter  that  he  was  a  matter  of  three 
hours  getting  back. 

One  season  about  did  for  me  in  the  hotel  busi 
ness,  strapped  me  of  most  all  I  had  except  the 
building  and  the  lot  it  occupied  —  my  losses  due 
in  about  equal  parts,  I  imagine,  to  my  own  neglect 
or  lack  of  training  for  the  game  and  to  the  lack 
of  scruple  in  my  partner. 

Still,  I  was  not  grieving  any  over  my  losses, 
for  I  was  thoroughly  tired  of  life  in  town  and 
wanted  to  be  hitting  the  trail  again  so  bad  I  reckon 
I'd  have  made  them  a  present  of  the  hotel  if  they 
had  not  contrived  to  possess  themselves  of  it  a 
short  time  before  I  reached  a  frame  of  mind  to 
give  it  to  them. 

In  the  matter  of  weather,  my  next  move  proved 
to  be  most  uncomfortably  ill-timed.  It  was  a  little 
trading  expedition,  started  late  in  the  fall  to  Fort 


EXIT  COX  259 

Stevenson,  a  small  post  on  the  Missouri  eighty- 
five  miles  above  Bismarck. 

A  not  unimportant  item  of  the  goods  carried 
consisted  of  the  equivalent  of  two  barrels  of 
whisky,  contained  in  a  lot  of  small  kegs,  or  rather, 
to  be  wholly  truthful,  the  equivalent  of  only  one 
Uarrel  of  whisky. 

For  with  the  doubly-prudent  purpose  of  mak 
ing  sure  the  Stevenson  soldiers  should  not  hazard 
their  health  drinking  too  high  proof  spirits,  and 
that  I  should  run  no  chance  of  loss  on  the  trading 
expedition,  I  must  confess  I  had,  by  discreet  dilu 
tion,  expanded  one  barrel  to  two. 

Arrived  at  the  post,  I  soon  made  a  good  sale 
of  the  whisky  to  a  sergeant  and  got  it  safely 
stowed,  but  before  I  had  time  to  engage  in  any 
further  trading  I  was  summoned  by  the  officer  of 
the  day  to  appear  shortly  before  the  commanding 
officer. 

Suspecting  this  could  only  mean  inquiry  respect 
ing  my  contraband  whisky,  and  having  noted  signs 
of  the  near  approach  of  a  heavy  storm,  sure  that 
season  to  bring  snow,  I  was  trotting  my  team 
swiftly  out  of  town  inside  of  ten  minutes. 

And  none  too  quick  was  my  move,  for  while  I 
had  pressed  my  team  to  top  speed  as  soon  as  out 
of  sight  of  the  garrison,  from  a  hill-crest  that  I 
crossed  shortly  before  nightfall  I  could  see  a  de 
tail  of  cavalry  galloping  on  my  trail. 

But  I  was  not  fearing  them,  for  in  another  ten 
minutes  night  enveloped  me,  and  with  it  came  a 


260  THE  VANGUARD 

whirling  smother  of  snow,  more  of  a  blizzard 
than  the  troopers  were  likely  to  face. 

The  storm  soon  developed  a  blizzard  no  living 
man  could  long  face  and  live.  To  lose  one's  self 
on  those  bald  prairies  meant  certain  death, 

My  winters  on  the  upper  Missouri  had  taught 
me  caution,  so  the  moment  I  found  difficulty  in 
keeping  the  road,  I  pulled  out  to  one  side  into  a 
shallow  swale  and  unhitched  my  team. 

Then,  first  tramping  a  rather  narrow  circle  in 
the  snow,  I  covered  my  mules  with  buffalo  robes, 
and  throughout  the  long  hours  of  the  night 
tramped  round  my  saving  circle,  leading  the 
beasts. 

It  was  the  only  way  to  save  them  and  myself 
from  freezing,  and  stick  to  it  and  pull  through  we 
did. 

The  next  day  I  managed  to  wallow  through  to 
Painted  Woods,  and  there  lay  several  days,  rest 
ing  and  thawing  out  my  frost-bites. 

Returned  to  Bismarck,  I  was  preparing  to  pull 
out  for  new  fields,  when  an  incident  happened  that 
served  to  hasten  my  departure.  A  widow  whom 
I  knew  well  and  respected,  appealed  to  me  for 
protection  against  a  dissolute  character  named 
Barker,  who  had  been  persistently  annoying  her 
with  his  attentions,  calling  frequently  of  evenings 
and  threatening  to  break  in  when  she  denied  him 
admission. 

Knowing  the  thoroughly  bad  character  of  the 
man,  I  suggested  that  I  would  call  early  that  even 
ing,  on  the  chance  he  might  appear  later  and  give 


EXIT  COX  261 

me  an  opportunity  to  throw  the  fear  of  God  into 
him. 

But,  as  so  often  occurs  in  life,  it  was  the  unex 
pected  that  happened.  That  evening  he  stole  up 
to  the  house  early,  caught  her  unawares,  and  was 
inside  before  she  realised  he  was  near.  A  few 
minutes  later  his  ear  caught  the  crunch  of  my  feet 
upon  the  snow  as  I  approached. 

Noticing  a  trap-door  leading  into  a  cellar,  he 
slid  through,  it,  threatening  her  with  death  if  she 
revealed  his  hiding-place. 

Entering  at  her  prompt  answer  to  my  knock, 
I  remarked,  "  Well,  missey,  the  sooner  your 
friend  Barker  calls  now  the  better,"  before  no 
ticing  that  she  stood  with  finger  on  lips  and  eyes 
glued  to  a  spot  on  the  floor  behind  me. 

Turning,  I  was  just  in  time  to  make  a  lightning 
side-leap,  as  that  trap-door  suddenly  raised  and 
an  out-thrust  pistol  blazed  at  me.  But,  too  old 
a  bird  at  the  game  to  give  any  man  a  second 
chance  at  me,  before  he  could  fire  again  I  had 
my  pistol-barrel  in  his  ear  and  persuaded  him  to 
back  up,  or  rather  down,  into  the  cellar. 

Then,  getting  the  widow  to  fetch  me  nails  and 
a  hammer,  I  nailed  him  safely  within  his  re 
treat. 

And  safe  though  she  was  at  the  moment,  so 
thoroughly  terrorised  had  she  become  of  the  ruf 
fian  that  she  insisted  on  leaving  me  on  guard  of 
the  house  while  she  hurried  down  town  in  search 
of  a  buyer  for  her  effects. 

And  when,  within  an  hour,  she  returned  to  an- 


262  THE  VANGUARD 

nounce  her  traps  disposed  of,  I  put  her  on  the 
midnight  train,  bound  east. 

Directly  the  train  departed,  I  went  back  to  her 
house  and  freed  Barker  from  his  cellar  prison. 

I  had  rather  hoped  the  several  hours  he  had 
passed  there  in  cold  storage  would  have  lowered 
the  temperature  of  his  rage  to  a  safe  degree.  But 
when  I  let  him  out  and  told  him  the  widow  had 
jumped  the  town,  he  showed  so  warlike  it  cost 
me  about  twenty  dollars  for  drinks  to  mollify  his 
wrath  to  a  point  I  dared  leave  him  —  safe  he 
would  not  be  tracking  and  bushwhacking  me. 

And  to  make  quite  sure  of  avoiding  further 
trouble  with  him,  I  myself  took  a  train  early  the 
next  forenoon  for  Fort  Garry,  now  Winnipeg. 


—  XIV  — 

WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN 

ONE  more  venture  in  business  I  made  on 
my  own  account,  and  it  has  remained 
about  the  last  up  to  this  day  and  hour. 
Whatever  else  I  may  have  been  cut 
out  for,  certainly  it  was  not  for  a  business  man. 
I  never  kept  any  books  —  never  had  enough 
money  or  business  doings  that,  put  in  a  bunch  of 
books,  it  wouldn't  take  a  week's  keen  scouting  to 
trail  up  the  figures  and  find  where  they  were  set 
down. 

If  I  could  flash  up  book  records  I'm  afraid  they 
would  prove  me  such  an  easy  mark,  as  a  rule,  that 
more  of  a  laugh  would  be  started  than  I  would 
enjoy  listening  to. 

Anybody  and  everybody  that  had  their  shins 
barked  against  hard  luck,  could  touch  me  for  my 
loose  change. 

The  natural  result  was  that  I  was  never  long 
burdened  with  any  jags  of  spare  coin.  And 
whenever  I  did  manage  to  turn  any  one  down,  it 
was  often  resented  as  an  unwarranted  breach  of 
the  rules  of  my  easy  game,  and  got  me  into  trou 
ble. 

Fort  Garry  was  the  field  of  my  last  commer- 
263 


264  THE  VANGUARD 

cial  exploit.  I  bought  twenty  acres  of  land  a  mile 
out  of  town  that  to-day  is  in  the  business  centre  of 
Winnipeg  and  worth  all  the  money  any  one  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  have. 

Only  it  is  not  mine  now.  On  it  I  built  a  hotel 
and  road-house.  Trade  came  fast  enough.  An 
other  would  have  grown  rich  there,  and,  I  sup 
pose,  got  along  in  peace. 

But  not  me.  I  had  too  big  a  reputation  as  a 
fighter,  that  made  me  a  prize  the  many  handy 
bruisers  then  on  the  frontier  were  keen  to  take 
down.  Indeed,  the  house  was  not  long  open  until 
I  got  called  down. 

At  the  time,  the  top-sawyer  of  the  local  fistic 
fraternity  was  a  man  named  Walsh.  One  day 
he  blew  in  and  intimated  he  would  appreciate 
credit  for  a  liberal  allowance  of  fluid,  of  some  well- 
known  trouble-starting  brand. 

Knowing  him  for  a  wholly  worthless  ruffian 
that  never  had  a  kind  word  or  hand  for  any  one, 
dangerously  ugly  in  his  cups,  I  gave  him  the  high 
sign  of  "  nothing  doing." 

Meeting  him  in  town  a  few  days  later,  he 
abused  me  a  lot  more  than  I  usually  stand  and 
demanded  a  fight;  so  abused  me,  in  fact,  that  I 
would  probably  have  taken  him  on  then  and  there 
but  for  the  fact  that  the  Canadian  police  were 
overlooking  no  chances  to  arrest  and  fine  Ameri 
cans. 

Thus,  when  shortly  the  Fullerton  Brothers,  two 
of  the  elite  of  the  Canadian  punch  artists,  came 
and  offered  to  second  the  pair  of  us  if  I  would 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         265 

give  Walsh  a  go,  and  assured  me  against  police 
interference,  I  was  not  slow  to  assent. 

Sleigh  load  after  sleigh  load  came  jingling  up 
to  my  place  the  night  of  the  fight,  until  my 
40  X  6o-foot  dance  hall  was  so  packed  that  scant 
room  was  left  for  the  ring. 

Stripped  to  trunks  and  buckskin  moccasins, 
Walsh  and  I  shook  hands  and  squared  up  to  each 
other. 

While  I  had  the  advantage  of  him  by  perhaps 
twelve  pounds,  he  was  about  the  most  shifty  and 
clever  man  with  his  hands  I  ever  tackled,  and 
tough  as  hickory. 

It  was  a  fight  to  a  finish,  barehanded,  for  in 
those  good  old  gruelling  days  gloves  were  as  lit 
tle  known  and  used  as  shifting,  side-stepping, 
ducking  or  clinching. 

It  was  stand  up  to  each  other  and  slug,  give 
and  take,  until  one  was  down  for  keeps.  And  so 
at  it  we  went. 

Details?  Well,  in  these  finicky  days  they 
would  not  make  pretty  reading,  the  incidents  of 
that  fight;  they  would  turn  the  black  ink  of  my 
publisher  too  red. 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  when,  after  a  full  thirty 
minutes  of  the  fiercest  battling,  my  opponent  got 
back  from  the  farther  end  of  Queer  Street  and 
the  fight  was  awarded  to  me,  both  were  completely 
done.  We  were  scarcely  able  to  stand. 

I  still  owned  the  presence  of  mind  and  voice 
to  order  my  bottle  pusher  to  throw  champagne 
into  the  bunch,  which  started  the  ball  rolling  so 


266  THE  VANGUARD 

profitably  that  my  house  took  in  eight  hundred 
dollars  before  the  sleigh-bells  resumed  jingling. 

The  few  remaining  weeks  of  that  winter  left  me 
over-fed  of  hotel-keeping,  for  I  found  it  a  life 
rather  fuller  of  battling  than  any  of  my  previous 
experiences. 

And  yet,  try  as  I  then  did,  and  often  have,  to 
escape  a  life  of  violence,  for  me  to  this  hour  there 
have  never  been  periods  of  more  than  brief  and 
always  armed  truce. 

Few,  indeed,  are  the  mouthfuls  of  bread  that 
have  sustained  me  that  I  have  not  literally  battled 
for. 

Still,  in  precisely  those  days  of  the  winning  of 
the  Far  West  from  savagery,  and  its  pacification, 
I  don't  know  that  my  experience  was  so  widely 
different  from  that  of  most  others.  It  was  a  job' 
that  never  would  have  been  accomplished  without 
plenty  of  powder  and  lead  and  at  which  few  men 
lasted  long  who  were  either  sparing  or  careless  in 
their  use.  It  was  either  battle  or  quickstep  back 
east  of  the  Missouri,  where  most  disputes  begin 
and  end  in  a  talking  match. 

Speaking  of  the  East,  it  was  there  at  Fort  Garry 
that  I  could  scarcely  resist  the  temptation  to  slip 
back  into  Michigan,  on  the  chance  of  at  least  news 
of  Bessie  McVicker. 

But  the  memory  of  the  still,  white  face  of  Tom 
Harper,  whom  I  had  left  stretched  beside  the  sap- 
trough,  made  me  conclude  it  healthier  to  stick 
among  the  unenlisted  ranks  of  the  vanguard  of 
the  frontier. 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         267 

So  I  had  to  go  on  contenting  myself  with  my 
dreams  of  the  old  Ionia  County  maple  forest 
where  I  had  last  seen  Bessie. 

The  break-up  of  the  ice  found  me  paddling 
down  the  Saskatchewan,  bound  on  a  season's  hunt 
for  the  Hudson  Bay  Company.  And  there  in  the 
far  north  I  remained  nearly  two  years  —  the  two 
most  happily  peaceful  years  of  my  life  —  shoot 
ing  bear,  moose,  elk  and  carabou,  trapping  otter, 
bea-er  and  mink,  for  their  pelts. 

But  two  winters  in  the  unremitting  bitter  cold 
and  ghastly  long  nights  of  the  Land  of  Little 
Sticks  so  far  sufficed  me,  that  the  autumn  of  1874 
I  drifted  south  to  Sioux  City,  burdened  with  a 
comfortably  fat  bank  roll,  the  proceeds  of  my 
two  seasons'  trapping. 

There  one  night,  while  I  stood  in  a  dance  hall 
watching  a  lot  of  pretty  wild  human  animals  go 
round,  I  was  robbed  of  all  my  savings,  except  a 
few  dollars  in  loose  change. 

While  not  entirely  certain,  I  felt  very  sure  of 
the  culprit;  but,  being  a  stranger  in  the  town  and 
wanting  to  avoid  any  personal  difficulty,  I  con 
sulted  a  policeman  outside  the  place. 

The  only  consolation  I  received  was  a  surly, 
"  You  look  big  enough;  why  don't  you  go  in  and 
get  your  money  yourself?  But  don't  say  anything 
to  any  one,  or  you're  apt  to  get  plucked  again." 

The  advice  struck  me  as  good.  I  went  in  and, 
presently,  found  my  man.  He  had  retired  to  an 
upper  room  of  the  house.  When  I  got  through 
with  him,  he  did  not  have  much  in  the  way  of 


268  THE  VANGUARD 

clothes  on,  or  of  unbroken  skin,  for  that  mat 
ter. 

But  I  recovered  my  eight  hundred  dollars. 

Returning  to  the  street  and  my  success  reported 
to  the  policeman,  he  suggested  that  perhaps  his 
advice  might  possess  the  value  of  a  drink,  and 
we  strolled  away  together. 

But  suddenly,  when  we  came  within  the  shadows 
of  the  town  hall  and  no  one  was  near,  he  pushed 
his  pistol  in  my  face  and  told  me  he  believed  he 
could  take  care  of  my  roll  better  than  I  could. 

The  sheer  cold  nerve  of  the  man  nearly  took 
my  breath  away  for  a  second,  but  I  came  to  in 
time  to  knock  him  down  and  snatch  his  pistol. 
Then  I  legged  it  for  the  train  in  jack-rabbit  jumps. 

Following,  he  caught  me  just  as  I  was  hopping 
aboard  a  freight,  but  a  shot  tumbled  him  off  on 
one  side  and  a  jump  landed  me  in  the  darkness 
on  the  other  side  —  whence  I  kept  on  going,  with 
out  stopping  to  make  any  inquiries  about  the  po 
liceman,  until  I  reached  the  vicinity  of  Salt  Lake. 

And  there  I  wintered,  in  Bingham  Canon. 

The  year  of  1875  and  the  spring  of  1876  I 
passed  wolfing  and  trading  again  in  Montana. 
And  I  suppose  it  was  only  my  absence  in  the  re 
mote  Whoop-Up  country  that  kept  me  out  of  the 
Rosebud  and  Little  Big  Horn  battles,  one  or  both, 
for  I  would  sure  have  been  out  scouting  for  the 
troops  if  I  had  known  the  campaign  was  on. 

Before  midyear,  I  had  again  dropped  down 
river  from  Fort  Benton  to  Bismarck,  where  I 
joined  a  bull  train  bound  for  the  Black  Hills,  into 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN        269 

which  a  mad  rush  of  gold-seekers  was  then  on, 
pouring  in  over  the  Cheyenne,  Sidney  and  Bis 
marck  stage  roads. 

When  I  reached  Deadwood,  the  deep,  pine-clad 
gulch  that  held  the  camp  was  seething  with  a  wild, 
roistering  throng  that  carried  me  back  to  the  best 
of  the  old  California  days. 

The  slopes  were  pitted  by  prospect  holes  and 
dotted  with  yellow  dumps. 

Those  were  the  days  of  Wild  Bill  Hickok.  In 
fact,  a  few  days  later  that  indomitable  gun  artist 
met  the  fate  few  of  the  trigger  squeezers  escaped. 

The  camp  was  wide  open. 

That  autumn  the  Cheyennes  were  raiding 
through  the  hills,  sometimes  almost  into  the  camp. 
None  of  the  outlying  camps  was  safe,  and  few 
wood  chopping  or  hay  cutting  outfits  got  back  un- 
scarred. 

One  brush  I  had  was  a  busy  one.  Four  of  us 
were  on  a  trip  down  Whitewood  Gulch,  below 
Crook  City,  prospecting  for  a  hay  claim,  when 
hi-yi-ing  past  us  came  a  small  Cheyenne  war  party 
driving  thirty  horses  they  had  looted  from  Crook. 

We  took  a  chance  and  went  into  action,  and 
finally  stampeded  the  Indians  and  captured  the 
stolen  horses.  But,  as  usual,  the  Cheyennes  took 
their  toll,  for  they  were  fighters  you  could  never 
be  sure  were  dead  until  you  saw  the  buzzards  eat 
ing  them.  We  lost  half  of  our  little  party  of 
four. 

When  the  Indians  were  finally  in  full  flight  and 
we  following  and  shelling  them,  one  we  had  bowled 


270  THE  VANGUARD 

over,  with  both  legs  and  one  arm  broken,  who  was 
crawling  toward  cover  as  we  passed,  rolled  flat 
on  his  back,  and,  resting  his  gun  on  an  updrawn 
knee,  shot  and  killed  two  of  our  mates.  But 
his  scalp  decorated  Ed  Morran's  saloon  for  I 
don't  know  how  long  thereafter. 

During  the  two  years  I  remained  in  the  Black 
Hills  I  was  kept  busy  at  good  jobs,  first  as  deputy 
sheriff  under  Seth  Bullock,  later  as  stage  messen 
ger,  or  treasure  guard,  principally  on  C.  W.  Car 
penter's  stage  route  between  Deadwood  and  Bis 
marck,  whose  coaches  were  usually  laden  with 
thousands  in  gold  bullion. 

Many  were  the  affairs  I  had  with  the  bandits 
that  swarmed  about  such  rich  picking,  but  not 
once,  I  can  truthfully  say,  did  I  lose  to  them  a  dol 
lar  of  my  charge. 

Just  good  luck,  probably,  for  a  number  of  times 
they  jumped  me  under  conditions  it  was  mighty 
hard  to  beat. 

With  the  incidents  of  these  affairs  I  shall  not 
weary  the  reader,  for  of  their  general  nature  my 
fight  while  guarding  the  South  Pass  stage,  already 
described,  is  sufficiently  typical. 

Early  in  1878  1  left  the  Bismarck  route  and 
served  with  Boone  May  on  the  Cheyenne  stage 
line.  I  was  with  him  in  February  of  that  year  in 
one  of  his  hottest  fights  when,  with  a  heavy  cargo 
of  treasure  aboard,  old  Gene  Barnett,  pulling  the 
ribbons  over  six,  and  the  author  of  this  book  on 
the  box  alongside  of  Gene,  we  were  jumped  in  the 
brush  lining  the  Old  Woman's  Fork  of  the  Chey- 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         271 

enne  River,  south  of  Jenny's  Stockade.  But 
Boone  May's  part  in  that  show  the  author  has  told 
elsewhere,  and  I'll  not  tire  the  reader  with  mine. 

My  old  rascally  hunting  partner,  Jack  Wat- 
kins,  turned  thoroughly  bad,  was  then  operating 
on  that  line,  but  the  hope  I  nursed  of  a  whack  at 
him  to  even  our  old  score  was  not  realised. 

Shortly  thereafter  Watkins  disappeared  out  of 
the  ken  of  all  of  us  who  had  known  him  in  the 
Northwest.  Years  later,  I  heard  he  had  been 
recognised  in  Tombstone,  Arizona,  but  this  I  have 
always  felt  sure  was  a  mistake. 

Only  death  could  cure  his  ilk  of  their  thieving 
tricks,  and  his  sudden  disappearance  from  the 
Cheyenne  route  and  failure  to  reappear  elsewhere 
has  left  me  believing  he  was  planted  by  Boone 
May  on  one  of  the  quiet  stalking  expeditions  by 
his  lonesome  for  which  Boone  was  famous. 

Sensations  on  that  frontier  were  complex  and 
highly  variegated,  and  they  came  chasing  one  an 
other  with  such  kaleidoscopic  rapidity  and  diver 
sity  that  they  knocked  dizzy  and  had  going  side- 
wise  all  but  the  coolest  heads. 

And  yet  it  was  a  life  that,  while  chiefly  notable 
for  stirring  into  hideous  action  the  rawest 
primeval  passions,  now  and  then  showed  outcrop- 
pings,  in  apparently  the  most  barren  human  for 
mations,  of  veins  of  kindness  and  tenderness  that 
assayed  bonanza  values. 

'  Yeast  Powder  Bill "  was  an  example. 

Doubtless  his  unique  name  was  very  well  if  not 
honestly  earned  by  his  masterful  skill  in  manipu- 


272  THE  VANGUARD 

lating  a  faro  box,  as  for  a  long  time  it  seemed  a 
foregone  conclusion  that  all  players  at  his  layout 
were  certain  to  have  the  last  cent  "  raised  "  out 
of  their  pockets  and  to  be  themselves  done  as 
brown  as  the  loaf  they  had  eaten  at  breakfast. 

As  a  "  raiser  "  of  speculative  money,  Bill  surely 
stacked  up  tall  among  the  high  priests  of  the  tem 
ples  of  chance. 

He  had  come  on  the  scene  accompanied  by  a 
young  woman,  really  a  lithe,  graceful  young  girl, 
of  rare  sweetness  and  charm.  A  brief  glance  at 
her  sufficed  to  leave  one  no  doubt  that  she  was 
well  bred  and  raised,  and  that,  notwithstanding 
her  questionable  association  and  raw  environment, 
she  was  still  as  clean  of  mind  and  heart  as  while 
she  served  as  a  modest  decoration  of  the  Sunday 
school  she  could  not  then  have  long  left. 

Yet  she  it  was  who  nightly  occupied  the  high 
"  lookout "  chair  at  Bill's  right  elbow,  her  great 
blue  eyes  dreamily  fixed  on  his  faro  "  layout," 
looking  as  sadly  out  of  place  as  would  a  sky  pilot 
found  pushing  bar  bottles  and  rinsing  glasses. 

But  that  she  was  not  as  innocent  of  knowledge 
of  the  duties  of  her  job  as  she  looked,  all  stakers 
at  their  layout  soon  learned.  No  breach  of  faro 
table  etiquette  that  might  work  disadvantage  to 
the  u  house "  escaped  those  dreamily  indolent 
blue  eyes. 

With  her  in  the  lookout  chair,  there  was  no 
sneaking  additional  chips  on  a  winning  card  or  re 
tiring  them  from  a  loser. 

And  that  Bill  respected  as  well  as  worshipped 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         273 

her  was  ever  apparent,  for  any  venturing  rude  be 
haviour  at  the  table  he  checked  in  an  icy  voice  that 
hinted  death  for  a  repetition. 

But  their  game  was  rarely  so  disturbed  — 
never,  indeed,  by  any  but  the  irresponsibly  drunk 
—  for  her  cleanness  and  sweetness  were  of  the 
obvious  sort  that  never  failed  of  winning  respect 
ful  consideration  of  the  big  majority  constituting 
the  rudest  circles  of  the  old  frontier. 

However  in  the  world  it  could  have  happened, 
I'll  bet  remains  to  this  day  a  mystery  to  every  liv 
ing  onlooker  at  that  play. 

Just  Providence  it  must  have  been,  Providence 
taking  the  bit  in  its  teeth  and  tugging  overtime 
until,  with  Bill  under  full  control,  it  had  sacked 
him  of  his  cunning  tricks,  and  had  steered  him 
into  the  straight  and  narrow  path  he  later  proved 
he  could  travel  creditably. 

Anyhow,  the  fact  is,  an  old  party  blew  in  one 
night  who  tapped  Bill's  bank,  emptied  his  safe, 
and  didn't  even  stop  at  that ;  won  from  the  begin 
ning  to  the  end  of  his  play  almost  without  a  break 
of  his  gait,  just  as  if  Bill  had  been  the  downiest 
tenderfoot  instead  of  about  the  slickest  sure-thing 
artist  that  ever  manipulated  "  strippers "  or 
pulled  "  seconds." 

A  substantial  old  party  he  was,  whose  appear 
ance  exuded  a  promising  mixture  of  prosperity, 
benevolence  and  easy-markedness  that  made  his 
money  look  like  a  gift. 

But  from  the  start  he  sure  had  Bill  mesmerised 
or  hoodooed.  Looked  like  he  just  couldn't 


274  THE  VANGUARD 

place  his  money  so  Bill  could  take  it  away  from 
him. 

And  the  wonder  grew  the  more  profound  among 
the  onlookers  as  he  rapidly  developed  into  a  high 
roller  of  the  attractive  sort,  whose  money,  some 
how,  only  the  elite  of  the  fraternity  know  quite 
how,  invariably  passes  into  the  till  of  the  squarest 
"  banks." 

Bet  after  bet  he  won;  steadily  the  chips  flowed 
across  the  table  to  him  in  a  seldom  interrupted 
stream. 

Meantime  the  iron-nerved  Bill  never  turned  a 
hair;  couldn't  tell  whether  he  was  winning  or 
losing,  until,  toward  the  last,  his  pale  face  grew 
grey. 

But  not  so  with  the  blue-eyed  lookout.  As, 
deal  after  deal,  the  position  of  the  bank  became 
more  precarious,  the  blue  eyes  lost  their  lazy 
dreaminess,  first  grew  intent  with  wonder  and 
then  hardened  into  almost  fierce  concentrated  con 
cern. 

And  when  at  last  Bill  quietly  announced  the 
bank  broke,  rose  and  emptied  his  safe  drawer  and 
proceeded  to  pass  over  to  the  winner  the  rise  of 
ten  thousand  dollars,  dainty  little  Blue  Eyes  looked 
about  ready  to  fight. 

Rigid,  still  as  death,  she  sat,  staring  into  space, 
every  line  of  her  lovely  face  set  motionless  as 
marble. 

Presently  she  spoke,  without  shifting  her  gaze 
—  from  what  seemed  a  fixed  contemplation  of 
eternity. 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         275 

"  Bill,  put  me  up  against  a  thousand !  " 

"  You?  Never;  not  in  a  thousand  years;  not 
against  a  million!  " 

"  Put  me  up,  Bill;  you  can't  lose." 

For  only  an  instant  Bill  reflected,  his  grey  face 
impassive  as  stone,  but  his  usually  cold  eyes  blaz 
ing  on  her  a  burning  love,  and  then  he  almost 
whispered: 

"I  believe  you're  right;  with  you  the  stake, 
dear,  I  couldn't  lose."  And  then,  turning  to  the 
winner,  who  had  remained  a  quiet  but  close  ob 
server  of  what  all  present  felt  was  getting  mighty 
close  to  a  tragedy,  remarked : 

"  She's  up  against  a  thousand;  shall  I  deal?  " 

A  prompt  assent  coming  from  the  winner,  play 
was  resumed.  Every  man  in  the  house  pushed  as 
close  to  the  table  as  he  could  crowd,  the  room  so 
still  one  could  hear  the  soft  swish  of  the  cards  as 
he  slipped  them  from  the  box. 

Meantime  Blue  Eyes  had  not  moved  except  to 
fix  her  gaze  on  the  table,  a  gaze  no  longer  fierce, 
but  eloquent  of  an  agonised  anxiety  fit  to  wring 
tears  from  the  sphinx. 

On  went  the  deal,  but  with  the  same  result  as 
before.  Win,  Bill  could  not.  Destiny  had  him ; 
against  it  he  was  powerless. 

And,  of  course,  at  the  winner's  plunging  gait 
the  deal  did  not  last  long.  Indeed,  to  us  it  seemed 
only  a  matter  of  seconds  until  Bill  pushed  his  box 
aside  and  hoarsely  whispered: 

"  Stranger,  the  girl  is  yours !  But  treat  her 
right,  or  I'll  camp  on  your  trail  until  I've  turned 


276  THE  VANGUARD 

you  into  crow  meat.  Stranger,  I  tempted  that  girl 
out  of  a  luxurious  home  and  from  the  bosom  of  a 
refined  and  loving  family,  under  a  promise  of  mar 
riage  that  I,  God  forgive  me,  have  not  fulfilled. 
Forgiveness?  I  don't  deserve  it.  It's  punish 
ment  of  the  crudest  I  should  be  handed." 

As  he  finished,  his  voice  broke  into  gusty  sobs. 

And  the  blue  eyes  were  streaming  tears  when 
the  stranger  pushed  to  Bill  across  the  table  a 
thousand  or  more  of  his  winnings,  without  a  word. 

Fiercely  Bill  shoved  the  money  back  to  him, 
muttering:  "Money?  Money?  What  use  have 
I  for  money  now?"  And  then,  turning  to  the 
girl : 

"  Dear,  in  putting  you  up,  IVe  staked  and  lost 
my  very  soul  on  the  turn  of  a  card.  Forgive  me 
you  cannot,  but  at  least  your  constant  prayer  shall 
now  be  answered,  for  I  shall  never  throw  another 
card  as  long  as  I  live,"  when,  sobbing,  he  bowed 
his  head  upon  his  arms. 

Nor  was  he  sobbing  alone,  for  scarred-faced 
old  battlers  and  vice-marked  rounders  who,  I'll 
bet,  had  not  given  up  a  tear  since  childhood,  were 
snuffling  in  chorus. 

Plainly  as  much  affected  as  any  of  us,  the  old 
plunger  stammered  to  Bill : 

"  Partner,  you  —  you  seem  to  love  this  girl  a 
heap." 

"  Love  her?  "  Bill  answered;  "  I  thought  I  had, 
but  now  I  realise  I  didn't,  right." 

"  Would  you  marry  her?  " 

"  Would  I  ?    Yes,  and  gladly  die  the  next  min- 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         277 

ute  for  the  privilege  of  paying  her  that  much  re 
spect,  if  after  what's  passed  she'd  let  me,"  Bill 
sobbed. 

"  So?  That's  right,  son,"  and  then,  turning  to 
us,  the  winner  of  Blue  Eyes  smilingly  queried, 
"  Won't  one  of  you  boys  hump  himself  after  a 
parson?" 

Entered  presently  a  grave,  black-clothed  man. 

And  there,  grouped  around  the  faro  layout,  hats 
off,  heads  bowed,  cheeks  wet,  all  stood  reverently 
while  the  parson  said  the  simple  service  that  made 
Yeast  Powder  Bill  and  Blue  Eyes  man  and  wife. 

Of  course,  first  and  last,  there  was  a  tolerably 
large  if  not  always  wholly  respectable  flock  of 
blue  eyes  in  the  camp,  but  never  a  single  pair  that 
would  assay  half  the  value  of  those  Bill  packed 
east  with  him  on  the  next  Bismarck  coach. 

Take  Calamity  Jane's,  for  instance;  her  eyes 
were  blue,  but  hers  is  a  story  "  I  ain't  a  goin'  to 
tell." 

But  there  was  one  other  pair  that  so  stirred  up 
the  camp  and  a  wide  region  round  about  for  a  time 
that  they  deserve  a  brief  record. 

It  was  of  a  spring  morning,  rosy,  fresh  and 
fragrant  as  she  herself  was  when  she  stepped  off 
the  box  of  the  Bismarck  coach  in  front  of  the 
hotel  office  —  although  in  a  few  days  the  boys 
were  allowing  she  was  a  long  way  from  being  as 
verdant  as  proper  spring-day  things  should  be,  but 
in  this  opinion  I  never  agreed  with  them. 

Blue?  Sure,  her  eyes  were  blue.  But  not  the 
dark  velvety  blue  of  the  lakes  that  lay  close  up 


278  THE  VANGUARD 

under  snow-line  of  the  high  range;  instead,  they 
were  always  glinting  the  pale  tints  of  highly  tem 
pered  steel. 

And  properly  enough,  too,  for  that  girl  was 
tempered  to  an  edge  that  would  make  the  best 
Toledo  blade  look  like  a  cross-cut  saw. 

And  dainty?  Sure,  too;  a  fluffier,  frailer  little 
trick  than  Bill's.  But  the  way  it  was  cavorting 
around  shortly,  busting  up  society  and  knocking 
big  dark  holes  in  the  scenery,  that  fluffy  trick  made 
it  pretty  plain  she  was  not  sporting  any  muscles 
not  cushioned  on  steel  springs. 

Precisely  what  elm-lined  New  England  village 
street  she  hailed  from  I  don't  remember,  any  more 
than  I  could  then  understand  however  such  an 
environment  had  managed  to  hold  her,  appar 
ently  gentle  enough  to  eat  out  of  your  hand,  as 
she  seemed  when  she  first  invaded  Black  Hills 
scenery. 

But  I  fancy  it  must  have  been  some  coast  vil 
lage,  hard  by  a  secluded  inlet  frequented  in  the 
old  days  by  Captain  Kidd  and  his  be-cutlassed 
crew,  where,  won  to  some  crude  measure  of  do 
mesticity  by  a  village  belle,  one  of  his  red-handed 
pirates  dropped  anchor  and  left  the  seed  of  blood 
so  wild  that  generations  had  not  served  to  ma 
terially  temper  it  in  this,  his  last  descendant. 

The  greatest  events  of  the  isolated  mining 
camps  of  the  old  frontier  were  the  arrivals  of  the 
overland  mail  coaches. 

When  the  clatter  of  the  galloping  six,  the  creak 
of  thoroughbraces,  the  "  Yip,  yip!  "  of  the  driver 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         279 

and  the  angry  snapping  of  his  lash  were  heard,  all 
business  was  suspended. 

Even  gambling  stopped.  All  but  the  thirstiest 
left  the  bars.  Everybody  crowded  round  the 
stage  office  for  a  glimpse  of  anything  interesting 
in  the  human  consignment  from  the  east  of  the 
Big  Muddy,  and,  of  course,  the  chief  elements  of 
interest  in  each  and  every  coach-load  never  wore 
trousers  tucked  in  their  boots. 

The  day  she  rolled  in  I'll  never  forget.  No 
more  will  any  one  else  then  present,  I  imagine. 
Roosted  on  the  box-seat  alongside  of  the  giant 
stature  of  Tom  Cooper,  she  looked  like  a  young 
maverick  not  yet  long  enough  away  from  its 
mammy  to  be  thriving  extra  well  on  buffalo 
grass. 

For  she  was  just  a  little  wisp  of  a  thing  in  figure, 
unsubstantial  apparently  as  a  powder-puff.  But 
her  face! 

Well,  it  will  be  about  enough  to  say  of  her  face 
that  it  was  one  that  could  have  married  her  to 
every  last  man  in  camp,  without  so  much  as  open 
ing  its  lips. 

Only  that  was  not  her  lay,  as  we  soon  found 
out. 

The  rush  to  win  the  privilege  of  helping  her 
down  from  the  box-seat,  and  the  contention  for 
the  honour  of  packing  her  grip  from  the  stage  to 
the  Grand  Central  Hotel,  came  near  bringing  on 
several  killings. 

It  would  have  been  certain  to,  but  for  the  fact 
that  where  all  were  contending,  one  got  a  grouch 


280  THE  VANGUARD 

against  so  many  it  was  hard  to  fix  responsibility 
for  disappointment  on  any  one. 

At  the  hotel  she  registered  as  Miss  Winifred 

.  I  remember  her  name  as  well  as  the  day 

I  read  it  on  the  register,  but  I'll  not  give  it  away, 
for  I  have  always  had  a  hunch  that  the  big  run 
she  got  for  her  money  around  Deadwood  may 
have  let  all  the  worst  mischief  out  of  her,  and 
that,  once  back  in  whatever  Humanyville  she  came 
from,  she  may  have  settled  down,  plumb  tame. 

What  her  game  was,  for  a  few  days  remained 
a  mystery.  The  only  obvious  facts  were  that 
none  of  us  won  from  her  the  encouragement  of  a 
smile,  much  less  a  word,  and  that  she  was  holding 
repeated  conferences  with  a  leading  lawyer,  at  his 
office,  and  that  circumstance  made  him  as  popular 
and  as  persistently  courted  as  is  a  new  president 
by  the  flock  of  hungry  office-seekers. 

Meantime  the  attentions  of  the  camp  annoyed 
her  so  that  she  left  the  hotel  and  took  shelter 
under  the  wing  of  the  parson's  wife.  For  two 
Sundays,  still  under  the  influence  of  home  tradi 
tions,  she  took  the  class  in  the  feeble  stagger  at  a 
Sunday-school  the  parson,  by  tireless  labour,  had 
managed  to  assemble. 

But  her  life  in  the  log-cabin  that  served  as  the 
parsonage  did  not  last  long.  And  when  she  did 
leave  she  performed  a  lightning-change  act  that 
knocked  the  camp  speechless. 

Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  the  truth  is  that  the 
night  of  the  very  same  day  her  business  with  the 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         281 

lawyer  was  concluded,   she  flew  the  parsonage 
coop. 

And  once  out,  she  never  quit  fluttering  until, 
shifted  to  ma(n's  rig,  blue  flannel  shirt,  trousers 
tucked  in  long  boots  and  a  full-grown  .45  six- 
shooter  buckled  round  her  toy  waist,  she  had 
perched  herself  in  front  of  a  faro  layout  and 
bought  a  stack  of  blue  chips  that  took  the  dealer's 
breath  away. 

And  before,  long  she  had  shifted  from  his  rack 
to  her  side  of  the  table  so  many  of  his  chips,  and 
had  done  it  so  persistently  and  easily,  that  the 
game  seemed  to  lose  interest  for  her. 

Anyway,  she  cashed  in,  swaggered  up  to  the 
bar  and  ordered  drinks  for  the  house  —  just  the 
proper  handsome  thing  to  do  after  her  heavy 
touch  of  its  faro  bank. 

That  was  the  one  thing  needful  to  convince  us 
her  early  innocence  play  was  no  other  than  a  mask, 
and  that  she  was  a  thoroughbred,  trained  amaz 
ingly  for  one  so  young,  in  the  highest  etiquette  of 
the  most  exacting  frontier  society. 

To  say  the  house  was  full  don't  give  an  idea 
of  the  crowd  that  actually  packed  it,  and  over 
flowed  the  neighbourhood  as  well,  the  outsiders 
craning  their  necks  for  a  glimpse  and  pricking 
ears  for  a  phrase  of  the  astounding  doings  inside. 

No  one  ventured  any  liberties  or  even  familiari 
ties  with  her.  For  by  the  time  she  had  tossed 
down  at  a  gulp  her  first  glass  of  neat  whisky, 
lights  were  ablaze  in  those  steely  eyes  that  no  one 


282  THE  VANGUARD 

could  mistake  for  an  invitation  to  get  gay  with 
her. 

Another  round  of  drinks  she  ordered  served, 
and  they  were  chambered  with  appreciation  and 
appropriate  formalities.  And  scarcely  were  the 
drinks  placed  where  they  would  do  the  most  harm 
than,  quietly  remarking  that  a  certain  bottle  behind 
the  bar  was  wearing  a  disgracefully  long  neck, 
she  out  with  the  big  .45  and  nipped  it  off  with  as 
quick  and  neat  a  snap-shot  as  I  could  have  made. 

Then  it  developed  that  the  house  held  various 
other  articles  she  disapproved,  notably  three  over- 
boisterous  dance-hall  ladies,  around  whose  toes 
she  planted  enough  lead  to  determine  to  her  satis 
faction  whether  they  could  dance  as  fast  as  they 
could  talk. 

Indeed  she  got  to  scattering  lead  so  indiscrim 
inately  and  impartially  around  the  house  that  it 
was  soon  emptied  of  all  but  a  few  of  us  old-timers, 
who  rather  gloried  in  her  gait  and  speed. 

Of  course,  all  the  city  peace  officers  were  on 
hand,  but  when  they  made  a  move  to  check  her 
pastimes  it  didn't  need  much  argument  from  us 
to  convince  them  that  they  had  best  leave  her 
alone. 

Finally,  her  lawyer  friend  persuaded  her  she 
could  depend  there  would  be  another  day  coming 
to  her  in  a  few  hours,  and  she  went  off  to  bed  at 
the  Grand  Central. 

And  she  was  hardly  out  of  the  house  before 
we  had  her  rechristened,  although  of  course  we 
didn't  take  any  chances  sending  a  committee  to  the 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         283 

hotel  to  advise  her  that  thereafter  she  would  be 
hailed  exclusively  as  Wild-and- Woolly  Win. 

More  to  the  point  of  deepest  local  interest, 
now  that  she  had  so  far  pulled  the  blinds  off  and 
declared  herself,  we  succeeded  in  persuading  her 
lawyer  to  give  up  to  us  the  little  he  knew  of  Win's 
pedigree.  While  brief,  his  yarn  was  a  paralyser. 

She  was  no  less  than  a  niece  of  one  of  the  worst 
bandits  of  the  Northwest  (whose  name  also,  for 
her  sake,  I  shall  withhold)  who  some  time  before 
had  been  mortally  wounded  and  brought  into 
camp  by  the  sheriff's  posse. 

Before  cashing  in,  he  had  entrusted  to  the  law 
yer  a  thousand  dollars  in  bills,  his  spurs,  pistol 
and  belt,  along  with  the  name  and  address  of  his 
niece. 

Himself  an  honest  man,  the  lawyer  had  written 
her  of  the  legacy  —  and  on  she  had  come  to  claim 
it.  That  was  all. 

About  her  own,  or  her  uncle's  antecedents  or 
connections,  she  had  been  mum. 

For  something  over  a  month  she  held  the  centre 
of  the  Deadwood  stage.  It  took  her  that  long  to 
go  broke.  For,  while  she  gambled  nightly,  her 
luck  held  so  phenomenally  that  she  had  the  banks 
near  buffaloed. 

Meantime,  most  of  her  talking  she  did  with  her 
six-shooter  —  talked  so  often  with  it  that  the 
houses  she  frequented  thinned  quickly  of  the  timid 
the  moment  she  entered. 

Of  drinking  she  did  little,  just  enough  to  keep 
a  keen  edge  on  her  temper,  apparently.  For 


284  THE  VANGUARD 

women  she  had  no  word.  In  men  she  took  no  in 
terest,  except  as  necessary  incidents  of  her  gam 
bling  and  scenery  smashing. 

Finally  the  inevitable  night  came  when  she 
couldn't  pick  a  winning  card.  But,  quite  as  we 
expected,  Win  never  turned  a  hair.  She  played 
her  roll  down  to  the  last  dollar,  handsomely  con 
sented  to  take  a  night-cap  on  the  house,  and  smil 
ingly  strolled  out  into  the  night. 

Most  of  us  sat  up  till  dawn  trying  to  figure  out 
what  would  be  the  next  move,  but  while  all  real 
ised  that  as  a  sensation  artist  she  was  a  sizzler, 
none  shot  near  the  mark. 

For  a  few  days  all  we  learned  was  that  she  had 
jumped  the  camp  the  night  she  went  broke  at  faro. 
Then,  at  length,  word  came  up  from  Rapid  that 
proved  to  the  most  skeptical  how  hard  it  is  to 
break  the  chains  of  heredity  —  no  less  than  that 
she  had  joined  Lame  Johnny  and  was  holding  up 
the  Sidney  stages ! 

But  that  was  a  game  that  couldn't  last  long.  In 
a  few  weeks  the  pair  were  captured,  Lame  Johnny 
hanged  on  Cottonwood,  and  Win  brought  into 
Rapid  City. 

There,  the  sheriff  conceived  a  punishment  for 
Win,  and  put  it  in  practice,  that  proved  a  stroke 
of  genius.  After  she  had  been  tossed  in  a  blanket 
by  a  gang  of  men  working  in  industrious  relays  for 
half  an  hour,  it  turned  out  that  they  had  managed 
to  so  nearly  shake  all  the  devilment  out  of  her  that 
she  consented  to  quit  the  country  on  the  next  down 
coach  —  to  pass  on  to  what  fate  we  never  learned. 


WILD-AND-WOOLLY  WIN         285 

Of  course,  a  few  weeks  served  to  heal  up  all 
the  Black  Hills  society  and  scenery  she  had  dam 
aged,  but  the  years  can't  run  on  long  enough  to 
drive  the  memory  of  Wild-and-Woolly  Win  from 
the  minds  of  any  who  knew  her  there. 


—  XV  — 

DEALING  WITH   THE   DESPERATE 

BY  the  end  of  1878,  Deadwood  and  the  en 
tire  Black  Hills  region  had  been  so  com 
pletely  cleared  of  stage-road  bandits  and 
town  toughs  as  to  hold  no  more  interest 
for  me. 

My  occupation  was  gone.  My  profession,  I 
had  almost  said,  for  the  guarding  of  life  or  some 
form  of  property  against  the  attacks  of  the  preda 
tory  had  come  to  be  no  less  with  me. 

The  hanging  of  Lame  Johnny  on  Cottonwood 
and  the  virtual  tossing  of  Wild-and-Woolly-Win 
out  of  the  country  in  a  blanket,  were  about  the 
last  acts  of  consequence  in  the  local  hold-up  melo 
drama. 

Thus  it  was  a  welcome  summons  to  me  when 
the  Cheyenne  coach  brought  me  a  letter  from  the 
Leadville  agent  of  L.  Z.  Leiter,  of  Chicago,  urg 
ing  me  to  report  there  to  him  with  all  speed.  And 
I  speeded  all  right,  at  the  best  pace  of  the  return 
coach. 

Arrived  there,  I  learned  that  the  great  Iron 
Silver  Mine  had  been  bought  by  Leiter,  but  that 
before  his  agent  could  take  possession  it  had  been 
"  jumped  "  by  a  gang  who  still  remained  in  pos 
session,  working  its  high-grade  ore  chutes. 

286 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    287 

The  dispossessing  of  this  gang  was  the  nice  little 
job  I  had  been  summoned  for. 

No  matter.  Most  of  the  apparently  hardest 
things  to  do  in  this  world  are  easy  when  one  goes 
at  them  right,  and  so  the  capture  of  the  mine 
proved,  notwithstanding  twenty-two  tough  men 
held  it  and  were  boasting  they  would  never  give 
it  up. 

Partly  from  the  fact  that  their  high-grade  ore 
was  so  rich,  and  partly  because,  doubtless,  they 
were  anticipating  trouble  from  the  new  purchaser, 
the  bulk  of  their  gang  was  kept  down  below  in  the 
workings. 

I  lost  no  time  in  getting  busy.  As  usual  with 
me,  my  strategy  was  not  notably  complicated.  I 
have  always  found  that  when  a  man  wants  any 
thing,  about  the  only  way  worth  messing  with  is 
to  just  go  and  take  it,  by  the  straightest  route  and 
the  most  direct  method. 

Leiter's  agent  wanted  me  to  raise  a  war  party 
of  thirty  men,  but  I  told  him  that  would  make  a 
bigger  army  than  I  was  accustomed  to  command, 
and  that  if  he  would  leave  the  details  to  me,  I 
would  be  ready  to  turn  the  Iron  Silver  mine  over 
to  him  by  the  time  his  underground  boss  could  get 
his  powder  bought  and  drills  sharpened. 

And  I  did  the  trick,  with  the  aid  of  three  other 
men;  but  as  each  of  us  carried  a  Winchester  and 
wore  two  six-shooters,  and  all  four  of  us  were 
popularly  known  as  such  careful  economists  in 
their  use  that  little  work  remained  for  the  doctors 
after  the  finish  of  any  shooting  match  we  were 


288  THE  VANGUARD 

forced  to  engage  in,  perhaps  the  odds  against  us 
were  not  as  heavy  as  at  first  glance  they  ap 
peared. 

Slipping  up  behind  the  shaft  house  before  the 
day  shift  was  due  to  turn  out,  I  captured  the  out 
works  without  firing  a  shot,  and  chased  the  crew 
down  the  gulch. 

Then  I  sent  a  note  down  in  the  bucket  to  the 
underground  gang,  ordering  them  out  without  any 
delay  or  back  talk. 

Their  reply  was  an  invitation,  framed  in  any 
thing  but  polite  terms,  to  come  down  and  get  them, 
and  the  assurance  that  they  would  welcome  a 
chance  to  start  us  on  the  way  to  a  deeper  and  hot 
ter  pit  than  that  they  occupied. 

While  the  answer  was  annoying,  it  still  had  for 
me  immediate  value.  Its  reference  to  a  hotter  pit 
suggested  my  next  move. 

First,  rushing  one  of  my  men  into  town  to  buy 
material  to  make  my  word  good,  I  sent  down  a 
second  note  to  the  underground  gang  to  say  that 
any  remaining  below  after  twenty  minutes  I  would 
smoke  out  with  sulphur. 

Did  it  work?  Like  a  charm.  Inside  ten  min 
utes  we  got  their  hoist  signal,  and  directly  there 
after,  bucketload  by  bucketload,  received  them, 
disarmed  them  as  fast  as  they  appeared,  and  set 
them  pounding  the  trail  back  to  town. 

Bruce  Hill  and  the  Iron  Silver  mine  were  ours ; 
and  my  work  was  so  far  appreciated  that  through 
the  next  year  or  more  Leiter's  litigation  lasted, 
I  remained  captain  of  the  Iron  Mine  Guard. 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    289 

Shortly  after  the  Meeker  massacre  by  the  Utes, 
old  John  Wallace  and  I  took  a  chance  on  a  trad 
ing  expedition  among  Captain  Jack's  Utes,  still 
rather  more  than  semi-hostile,  over  on  Platon 
Creek. 

That  we  managed  to  return  with  forty-nine 
horses  and  four  hundred  buckskins,  we  owed  ex 
clusively  to  promises  we  found  ourselves  forced 
to  make  that  we  would  come  back  shortly  with 
guns  and  ammunition. 

In  the  lot  of  horses  we  got  were  several  that 
even  the  Indians  could  not  ride.  But  as  by  that 
time  I  had  become  something  of  a  bronco  buster 
myself,  I  managed  to  master  them  in  a  way  that 
I  believe  would  have  made  my  old  mates,  Peach 
and  Cox,  proud  of  me. 

After  spending  the  next  few  months  scouting 
for  Captain  Lawton  around  Fort  Garland,  I  was 
hired  by  Don  McN.  Palmer,  of  Denver,  to  go 
with  him  to  Mexico,  as  guard  of  his  pay-roll  and 
bullion  pack  trains. 

In  those  years  all  of  central  and  northern 
Mexico  was  quite  as  unsafe  as  in  actual  war  times. 

Porfirio  Diaz  had  the  south  fairly  well  pacified 
and  under  control.  But  in  the  north  lack  of  com 
munications  and  facilities  for  moving  troops  for 
some  years  left  it  impossible  for  him  to  suppress 
the  bandits  that,  under  able  leaders,  and  often  in 
large  bodies,  were  constantly  attacking  travel  on 
the  stage  roads,  sacking  ranches,  and  even  entering 
the  larger  towns  and  levying  prestamos  (enforced 
"  loans  ")  on  the  wealthier  merchants. 


290  THE  VANGUARD 

Ultimately,  Don  Porfirio  destroyed  the  last  of 
these  bandit  organisations,  great  and  small,  by  a 
most  masterful  piece  of  diplomacy,  equal  in  its 
brilliancy  to  the  greatest  of  his  victories  on  the 
battlefield. 

To  each  of  the  bandit  leaders  he  sent  an  invita 
tion  to  come  to  the  City  of  Mexico  for  a  confer 
ence  with  him,  giving  them  his  word  of  honour 
that  they  should  be  free  to  return  to  their  respec 
tive  fields  of  industry  when  they  pleased. 

All  came,  nearly  a  dozen  of  them,  as  I  remem 
ber.  To  them  he  gave  a  banquet  in  the  national 
palace.  The  banquet  ended,  he  addressed  them, 
more  or  less,  as  follows: 

"  Gentlemen  —  you  know  me.  You  know  I  am 
accustomed  to  make  my  word  good.  I  have 
brought  you  here  to  tell  you  that  I  now  have  the 
south  pacified.  Now  I  am  free  to  send  half  my 
army  against  you,  if  you  leave  it  necessary  for  me 
to  do  so. 

"  I  can,  and  will,  wipe  every  last  one  of  you 
off  the  face  of  the  earth  unless  you  find  merit  in 
the  alternative  I  have  brought  you  here  to  listen 
to.  It  will  take  time,  of  course;  but  I  have  the 
time  —  and  the  men. 

"  At  the  best,  your  occupation  is  precarious. 
I  can  shortly  make  it  impossible,  but  in  doing  so 
I  shall  have  to  destroy  you.  This  I  do  not  want 
to  do,  and  will  not,  unless  you  compel  it.  I  prefer 
you  should  live  and  serve  the  State. 

"  I  have  now  to  propose  that  each  of  you  sur- 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    291 

render ;  that  you  return  to  the  north  and  fetch  me 
in  your  men,  all  of  them. 

"  Arrived  here,  I  shall  organise  your  forces 
into  regiments  of  irregular  cavalry.  You,  the 
leaders,  will  have  the  rank  and  pay  of  colonels. 
Your  men  will  be  well  mounted,  armed  and  paid. 

"  The  new  force  will  be  disposed  of  as  occa 
sion  demands.  If  you  accept,  I  shall  rely  as  abso 
lutely  on  your  loyalty  as  you  now  may  rely  on 
my  word.  You  have  until  to-morrow  to  accept 
or  decline." 

Don  Porfirio's  genius  won.  And  from  that 
day  to  the  unhappy  finish  of  his  official  career,  a 
career  that  has  placed  him  among  the  foremost 
leaders  of  men  and  moulders  of  the  destinies  of  a 
people  of  his  generation,  the  Rurales,  as  his  ex- 
bandit  cavalry  became  known,  have  remained  the 
most  loyal  and  effective  organisation  of  the  Mexi 
can  army. 

Luckily  for  my  job,  all  this  happened  after  I 
had  left  the  country. 

During  the  two  years  I  was  engaged  in  guard 
ing  shipments  of  bullion  that  usually  ran  high  into 
the  thousands  in  value,  first  from  Palmer's  mine, 
and  later  from  Boss  Shepherd's  Batopilas  mine, 
to  Chihuahua,  down  through  the  heavily  timbered 
gorges  of  the  Sierra  Madre  and  out  among  the 
mesquite  thickets  of  the  central  plateau,  my  guns 
got  warmed  up  often  enough  to  rob  the  life  of  its 
otherwise  hopeless  monotony. 

But  I  managed  never  to  lose  any  of  the  treasure 
entrusted  to  me,  and  to  keep  a  fairly  whole  skku 


292  THE  VANGUARD 

Few,  indeed,  were  the  travellers  of  those  hill 
trails  who  got  off  so  luckily,  and  I  believe  it  was 
my  old  friend,  Ben  Hill,  who  was  the  most  dis 
tinguished  example  of  the  other  extreme. 

He  put  up  a  fight  the  fancy  quill  drivers  would 
feel  bound  to  call  epic,  I  imagine.  Certainly  he 
contrived  to  acquire  more  holes  in  his  skin,  and  to 
survive  them,  than  most  men  would  regard  it  any 
use  to  try  to  get  over. 

Hill's  encounter  was  with  one  of  the  bands  of 
Eraclio  Bernal,  for  years  the  most  powerful  and 
ruthless  of  the  bandit  chiefs  of  the  Sierra  Madre. 

Throughout  the  mountain  sections  of  the  States 
of  Zacetecas,  Durango,  Chihuahua,  Sinaloa  and 
Sonora,  his  power  was  so  far  supreme  that  he 
raided  camps  like  Sombreretillio,  Ventanas,  Guan- 
acevi,  looting  when  and  as  he  pleased. 

At  the  time  Hill  was  climbing  out  of  one  of  the 
upper  tributaries  of  the  Rio  Fuerte,  toward  the 
crest  of  the  range,  with  several  mules  loaded  with 
rich  merchandise  and  freshly  coined  silver  from 
the  Culiacan  mint,  accompanied  by  three  helpers. 

Suddenly,  without  the  least  warning,  from  the 
rocks  and  timber  that  thickly  bordered  the  trail  a 
storm  of  lead  was  poured  into  his  little  party. 
The  first  volley  killed  outright  his  three  compan 
ions. 

Springing  to  cover  behind  a  tree,  Hill  fought 
until  he  fell,  emptying  first  his  Winchester  and 
then  his  two  pistols. 

When  he  regained  consciousness  it  was  to  find 
himself  in  the  bandit's  camp,  high  up  among  the 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    293 

pines,  his  wounds  rudely  but  effectively  dressed, 
and  himself  the  subject  of  the  best  care  circum 
stances  permitted. 

Presently  his  captor,  the  redoubtable  Eraclio 
Bernal,  came  to  see  him.  Bernal  was  a  slender 
wisp  of  a  man,  black  bearded,  with  great  black, 
melancholy  eyes,  looking  more  befitting  an  anchor 
ite  than  a  bandit. 

"  Well,  son,  coming  round,  I  hope?  I've  been 
doing  my  best  to  save  you,  for  you  earned  it. 
Never  heard  of  such  a  fight  as  you  put  up. 

'  You  killed  fifteen  and  wounded  eight  of  my 
men  —  scored  with  twenty-three  of  your  twenty- 
four  shots.  And  you  did  not  go  down  until  your 
last  shell  was  spent,  not  until  four  shots  had  hit 
you  in  the  face,  four  passed  through  your  side, 
and  eight  others  had  grazed  your  skin. 

"  You  fought  like  a  thousand  devils !  With 
three  leaders  like  you,  I  could  whip  Don  Porfirio's 
army  and  take  the  presidency." 

Through  the  many  weeks  it  took  Hill  to  jour 
ney  back  from  the  borderland  of  death  to  health 
and  strength,  the  bandits  were  unremitting  in  their 
kindly  care  of  him. 

And  when  again  able  to  travel,  Bernal  started 
him  with  a  strong  escort  that  safely  landed  him 
and  his  merchandise  at  his  destination. 

All  of  which,  I  dare  say  the  reader  will  agree, 
constitutes  a  rarely  paralleled  expression  of  the 
admiration  of  one  bold  spirit  for  another. 

The  three  years  in  the  middle  eighties  that  I 
was  employed  as  treasure  guard  of  the  Carlisle 


294  THE  VANGUARD 

Mine,  in  New  Mexico,  were  certainly  full  enough 
of  strife  to  satisfy  the  hungriest  battler. 

It  was  my  duty  to  escort  and  guard  the  bullion 
shipments  on  their  sixty-five  mile  overland  journey 
from  the  mine  to  Lordsburg,  our  nearest  rail 
way  shipping  point,  and  while  resting  about  the 
camp  to  maintain  order. 

Road  agents  were  thick  enough  and,  what  was 
worse,  many  of  the  cowboys  of  the  big  cattle  out 
fits  of  southern  New  Mexico  were  themselves,  like 
the  road  agents,  outlaw  Texans.  Among  them 
the  road  agents  could  always  get  food,  ammuni 
tion,  asylum  and  mounts. 

Their  dislike  of  me  as  a  Yankee  soon  crystal 
lised  into  bitter  hatred  when,  to  strengthen  my 
hand  as  bullion  and  camp  guard,  the  mine  authori 
ties  had  me  appointed  a  deputy  sheriff  of  Grant 
County.  For  I  was  thereby  empowered  to  in 
terfere  with  the  mad  pranks  by  which  they  were 
always  knocking  holes  in  the  law  whenever  they 
came  to  town. 

For  a  beginning,  I  started  off  with  a  general 
jolly,  tried  to  persuade  them  in  a  kindly  way  that 
we  were  fond  of  our  local  scenery  just  as  it  stood, 
and  would  be  mightily  pained  to  see  it  much  shot 
and  cut  up  into  new  patterns  we  were  liable  not 
to  like. 

But  for  my  comfort  and  their  safety  this  mild 
pacification  talk  proved  a  bad  break.  It  estab 
lished  generally  among  them  the  conviction  the 
new  officer  was  "  buffaloed,"  afraid  of  them.  This 
was  true,  in  a  way,  only  what  they  didn't  know 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    295 

was   that    I'm   never    so    dangerous    as   when   I 
get  good  and  scared. 

Shortly  after  I  took  charge,  I  was  advised  that 
one  of  the  Texas  outlaws  named  Bob  O'Brien, 
a  fugitive  for  the  killing  of  a  Texas  sheriff,  had 
been  promising  himself  to  give  me  a  shooting 
game.  But  when  the  next  day  I  met  him,  to  my 
surprise  he  tackled  me  for  a  job. 

I  told  him  I  was  sorry  I  had  no  power  to 
deputise  him,  as  I  had  heard  he  was  a  gun  expert 
and  was  so  little  of  a  fighter  myself  I  should  be 
glad  to  have  his  assistance,  that  I  needed  the 
friendship  of  all  the  good  men  in  camp  and  hoped 
to  have  his. 

Then  I  bought  him  as  fine  a  dinner  as  the  camp 
afforded,  and  finished  by  presenting  him  a  box  of 
cigars  when  we  shook  hands  at  parting. 

Grateful?  Was  he?  Sure,  or  at  least  so  it 
seemed  to  me.  Grateful  for  what  he  evidently 
regarded  as  assurance  that  he  could  run  riot  and 
shoot  up  the  town  as  he  pleased,  safe  of  inter 
ference  from  me. 

Inside  of  two  hours  he  was  sizzling  drunk, 
shooting  up  the  camp,  and  yelling  for  the  new 
sheriff  to  come  out  and  stop  him. 

Knowing  it  was  make  good  then  and  there  or 
get  chased  out  of  the  country,  I  went  out  quick 
enough  —  to  find  him,  like  most  of  his  drop- 
hunting  kidney,  a  feeble  four-flusher  the  moment 
his  hand  was  called. 

While  I  was  quickstepping  him  to  our  little 
brown  adobe  jug,  he  managed  to  get  up  enough 


296  THE  VANGUARD 

dander  to 'smash  me  in  the  face  with  his  handcuffs. 
This,  however,  I  rather  welcomed,  as  giving  me  a 
chance  to  collect  for  the  value  of  the  dinner  and 
cigars  I  had  misspent  on  him,  by  caressing  his  face 
with  the  barrel  of  my  gun  until  it  looked  like  a 
map  of  the  Florida  Keys. 

The  next  morning  I  found  I  had  locked  the 
handcuffs  so  tightly  on  him  I  had  to  fil.e  them  off, 
during  which  process  he  diverted  himself  by  telling 
me,  in  shockingly  bad  language,  that  I  would  not 
be  on  earth  to  eat  another  supper. 

So,  as  I  always  did  enjoy  my  meals  and  never 
could  stand  anxiety  about  my  future,  I  ordered 
my  black  horse  (the  fastest  in  the  country)  to  be 
brought,  saddled  and  bridled. 

As  soon  as  the  horse  arrived  I  handed  O'Brien 
his  pistol  and  belt,  and  remarked:  "See  that 
the  chambers  of  your  gun  are  full,  son,  and  then 
cut  loose.  If  you  can  get  me,  there's  my  black 
horse  ready  for  a  safe  get-away !  " 

His  face  wasn't  pretty,  naturally,  and  it  was 
not  any  handsomer  on  account  of  the  beating  I 
had  given  him,  but  my  proposition  turned  it  some 
thing  hideous  —  a  mixture  of  hatred  and  fear  — 
as  he  buckled  on  his  gun  and  sneaked  out  of  my 
presence  without  a  word. 

His  tale  of  what  had  happened  to  him  must 
have  inspired  resentment  among  his  mates  of  the 
sawmill  camp,  for  the  same  night  word  was 
brought  me  that  Jack  Morrison,  another  Texas 
"  bad  man,"  was  in  town  looking  for  the  man  who 
had  "  put  it  over  "  his  partner,  O'Brien. 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    297 

I  was  not  very  long  getting  to  Mr.  Morrison 
and  attending  to  his  case,  and  when  I  was  through 
with  him,  I  am  sorry  to  say  his  face  was  in  worse 
condition  than  O'Brien's,  and  it  was  a  meander 
back  to  camp  for  him. 

Shortly  thereafter,  I  was  called  up  to  the  mine. 
When  I  came  back  to  camp  in  the  morning,  I 
learned  that  Frank  Kneeland  had  just  started 
back  for  the  sawmill,  after  having  spent  the  night 
shooting  up  the  camp  and  bemoaning  my  absence. 

Spurring  my  black  to  his  top  speed  along  the 
sawmill  trail,  I  soon  overtook  Mr.  Kneeland,  ex 
pressed  to  him  my  profound  regret  that  I  had  not 
been  on  hand  to  accommodate  him  the  night  be 
fore,  and  suggested  that,  while  we  were  short  of 
music,  nevertheless  there  was  enough  of  us  for  a 
round  dance,  and  that  I  would  appreciate  an  in 
vitation  from  him  to  open  the  ball. 

Did  he  draw?  No;  at  least  nothing  but  a  sort 
of  shuddering  sigh. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  white-livered  bush 
whacker?"  I  bantered.  "Is  there  no  fight  in 
you?" 

"  Reckon  not,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  he  stammered.  "  I 
sure  don't  feel  any  hurtin'  me  right  now.  Reckon 
it  was  just  the  red-eye  that  stung  me  warlike  last 
night,  and  that  now  she's  kinda  faded." 

"So?  Well,  then,  son,"  I  replied,  "suppose 
you  ride  back  to  camp  with  me  and  tank  up  again 
on  war  water;  it  shall  not  cost  you  a  cent  —  I'll 
buy. 

"  You  know  I'm  the  doctor  that  operated  on 


298  THE  VANGUARD 

your  partners,  O'Brien  and  Morrison,  and  you 
can  count  on  me  to  relieve  any  symptoms  like  theirs 
that  may  be  hurting  you." 

"  Say,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  he  answered  with  a  feeble 
grin,  u  the  only  thing  I'm  sufferin'  from  is  a 
mighty  powerful  attack  of  heart  failure,  and  if 
you'd  let  me  mosey  on  up  to  the  sawmill,  I  reckon 
that  would  get  better,  pronto." 

Utterly  disgusted  with  his  type  of  bluffing 
piker,  I  directed  him  to  drop  his  pistol  and  belt 
on  the  off  side  of  his  horse,  and  to  dismount. 

Then,  riding  up  beside  him  and  withdrawing 
a  foot  from  the  stirrup,  I  managed  to  remove  sev 
eral  of  Kneeland's  teeth  with  the  toe  of  my  boot, 
much  more  quickly,  if  not  less  painlessly,  than  the 
cleverest  dentist  could  have  done.  I  then  wheeled 
my  horse  and  rode  leisurely  away,  confident  he 
lacked  the  nerve  even  to  shoot  at  my  back. 

Brutal?  Yes,  crudely,  rawly  brutal,  I  am 
bound  to  admit  my  treatment  of  those  men  was; 
but  the  reader  will  concede  I  first  did  my  best  to 
manage  them  by  kindness,  and  only  resorted  to 
violence  when  forced  to  it. 

And  that  it  was  precisely  what  was  needed  to 
master  the  wild,  lawless  element  thereabouts 
thronging,  is  reasonably  proved  by  the  fact  that 
I  held  down  my  job  of  deputy  sheriff  and  bullion- 
guard  for  the  mine  for  two  years,  and  that  with 
out  further  serious  trouble  until  near  the  end  of 
my  service,  when  I  had  to  take  in  a  big,  bad  man 
travelling  under  the  misleading  name  of  Charles 
Small,  and,  with  two  men  I  had  deputised,  cap- 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    299 

tured,  near  Duncan,  the  Bass  gang  that  had 
wrecked  and  robbed  a  Santa  Fe  train  at  Socorro. 

Leaving  the  Carlisle  Mine,  for  the  next  two 
or  three  years  I  became  a  rather  more  rapidly 
rolling-stone  than  usual.  I  took  a  whack  at  the 
gold  fields  of  northern  California ;  tried  my  hand 
at  farming  near  Pomona,  where  everything  I 
planted  seemed  to  resent  it  and  stubbornly  refused 
to  grow;  jumped  back  north  to  Stockton  and  had 
a  go  at  pressing  hay  —  and  found  it  so  much 
harder  work  than  pressing  a  pistol-trigger  that  I 
soon  gave  it  up;  then  drifted  down  to  Nogales, 
Arizona,  and  backed  into  a  job  more  in  my  line  — 
that  of  deputy  sheriff. 

But  within  a  few  months  after  my  appoint 
ment  the  town  had  become  so  peaceable  and  life 
there  grown  so  hopelessly  monotonous,  that  I 
resigned  and  started  into  Sonora  on  a  prospecting 
trip. 

For  me  the  trip  was  a  loser,  not  in  the  least 
to  my  disappointment,  for  I  had  become  used  to 
it,  but  it  produced  my  mate  a  stake  sufficiently 
handsome  to  suit  anybody. 

In  Leadville,  some  years  earlier,  I  had  known 
him  as  a  sure-thing  card-artist,  rolling  in  pros 
perity,  and  why  he  should  want  to  go  piking  off 
into  the  Sierra  Madre's  with  me,  prospecting, 
was  only  explainable  on  the  theory  that  some  one 
was  camping  on  his  trail  he  was  not  anxious  to 
meet. 

But  I  never  indulged  my  curiosity  to  the  extent 
of  asking  him  any  questions  on  the  subject. 


300  THE  VANGUARD 

Of  course,  in  that  wild  mountain  region  there 
were  small  prospects  of  any  rich  pickings  in  his 
gambling  line,  but  one  night  that  we  were  camped 
below  Bavispe  the  chance  of  his  life  blew  in, 
as  it  turned  out,  about  the  slickest  conducta  I  ever 
saw  in  the  mountains,  a  string  of  fat  mules  loaded, 
we  later  learned,  with  silver  dollars  and  rich  mer 
chandise,  with  a  heavy  escort  of  armed  men. 

And  the  owner  outshone  the  conducta.  A 
middle-aged  Mexican  hidalgo,  he  appeared,  of  the 
bluest  blood,  if  one  might  judge  from  his  high 
and  mighty  airs  and  the  costume  he  wore. 

His  get-up  would  have  made  the  gaudiest 
bandit  chief  of  the  Sierras  look  like  a  peon  — 
jacket  and  trousers  of  golden  yellow  leather 
so  spangled  with  silver  braid  and  conchas  that  he 
must  have  been  weighted  like  a  knight  in  armour; 
big  sombrero  so  loaded  with  gold  one  could  have 
panned  it  profitably  for  a  week ;  saddle  sporting  a 
horn  nearly  as  big  as  his  sombrero,  covered  with 
a  gold  boss  bearing  the  eagle,  rattler  and  cacti  of 
the  Mexican  national  arms;  spurs  and  bridle-bit 
of  solid  silver;  machete  and  pistol  handles  set  with 
gold. 

He  sure  was  a  great  looker,  was  that  hidalgo, 
and  seemed  to  suspect  as  much  himself. 

To  us  he  paid  no  more  attention  than  to  the 
raggedest  peons,  at  least  not  until  my  mate,  catch 
ing  him  standing  near,  quickly  spread  a  scrape  on 
the  ground,  squatted  on  one  end  of  it,  produced  a 
monte  deck,  dumped  his  wad  before  him,  and 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    301 

called  for  some  high-roller  to  come  and  tap  the 
bank. 

Tap  the  bank !  Why,  at  the  most  it  would  not 
stack  up  above  a  hundred  'dobe  dollars,  but  a 
blooded  call  'for  a  tap  of  a  bank  is  a  dare  no 
Mexican  with  the  price  can  resist. 

Whirling  at  the  sound  of  my  mate's  challenge, 
the  hidalgo  strolled  up  to  the  improvised  layout, 
looked  disdainfully  on  the  insignificant  pile  of 
silver,  and  scornfully  asked: 

"  Well,  son,  have  you  no  more  ?  I  do  not  like 
to  play  for  trifles/' 

"  Sorry,  senor"  replied  my  mate,  "  but  I 
couldn't  dig  up  another  two-bit  piece,  and  I  reckon 
I'm  regretting  the  fact  about  as  much  as  you,  for 
if  my  roll  was  larger  I'd  waste  less  of  my  valuable 
time  winning  all  of  yours." 

The  insolence  of  the  answer  worked  as  well  as 
it  had  been  hoped,  for  the  hidalgo  promptly 
squatted  on  the  other  end  of  the  serape  and  chal 
lenged,  "  Come  on,  then.  You  are  welcome  to 
all  if  you  can  win  it  —  and  you  can  depend  there 
is  a  plenty." 

Covering  the  bank-roll,  the  deal  began. 

Of  course  the  hidalgo  never  had  a  look-in,  ex 
cept  as,  now  and  then,  the  dealer  allowed  him  a 
win  to  make  sure  of  holding  his  play. 

Meantime,  across  to  and  round  about  the  dealer 
flowed  a  stream  of  'dobe  dollars  until  he  looked 
to  be  afloat  on  a  sea  of  silver. 

Finally,   there   came   an  end  of  the  hidalgo's 


302  THE  VANGUARD 

ready  coin;  his  costales  were  all  emptied  of  their 
treasure. 

This,  however,  delayed  the  game  no  more  than 
temporarily,  until,  at  his  commands,  the  hidalgo's 
servants  had  fetched  the  bales  of  merchandise  that 
composed  his  other  mule-loads,  which,  one  by  one, 
he  staked  against  their  value  —  and  lost  as  fast 
as  the  layouts  could  be  made  and  the  cards  drawn. 

Did  it  feeze  him?  Not  in  the  least.  Smiled 
like  a  four-time  winner,  did  the  don,  and  ordered 
brought  his  horse  and  pack-mules,  their  saddles 
and  his  arms  —  and  played  them  off  as  cheerfully 
as  he  had  lost  his  first  bet. 

Only  toward  the  finish  did  he  reduce  his  bets 
to  lower  units,  as  if  seeking  to  extend  the  period 
of  play  in  desperate  hope  Dame  Fortune  might 
deign  to  smile  on  him,  all  unmindful  of  the  fact, 
that  should  have  been  obvious  to  even  as  mad  a 
gambling  fiend  as  he,  that  the  dealer  held  Dame 
Fortune  a  throttled  subject  of  his  will. 

Stripped  of  his  beasts  and  equipment,  the  hi 
dalgo's  face  fell  grave  for  the  first  time.  For 
a  few  minutes  he  sat  silent,  as  if  in  study. 

Then,  politely  excusing  himself  for  five  minutes, 
he  rose  and  entered  a  neighbouring  house  —  to 
return  almost  instantly,  it  seemed,  a  man  externally 
transformed,  scantily  clad  in  the  dirty,  ragged 
blanket,  the  loose  cotton  trousers,  rawhide  sandals, 
and  the  frayed  and  greasy  sombrero  of  a  peon. 

On  his  arm  he  bore  his  magnificent,  spangled 
costume,  complete  from  boots  to  hat,  and  on  his 
face  he  wore  the  same  disdainful  smile. 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    303 

Sure  as  death  itself  of  its  marked  victims,  the 
dealer  readily  conceded  whatever  value  the  hi 
dalgo  set  upon  these  his  last  belongings. 

Play  was  resumed,  but  now  reduced  to  petty 
larceny  terms,  the  bets  so  small  that  it  took  the 
dealer  more  than  two  hours  to  win  the  fourth 
of  the  values  that,  earlier  in  the  contest,  fell  to 
him  on  a  single  layout,  and  to  leave  his  victim 
plucked  to  the  pin-feathers. 

Rising  quickly,  the  game  thoroughbred  re 
marked: 

"  Well  done,  son;  you  have  won  my  money,  all, 
but  I  still  own  my  pride.  Good  night." 

And  it  proved  his  good-bye  as  well,  for  straight 
away  out  into  the  darkness  he  marched,  and  we 
never  saw  him  again. 

Of  course,  that  evening's  diversion  divorced  me 
from  my  prospecting  mate.  With  winnings  that 
totalled  well  up  in  five  figures,  he  was  keen  to 
blow  himself  where  the  most  fun  could  be  bought, 
not  too  dangerously  near  his  old  Colorado 
haunts. 

The  shortest  trail  to  Tucson  was  good  enough 
for  him,  and  I  took  it  with  him. 

Then  followed  for  me  several  more  years  of 
drifting,  unprofitable  as  their  predecessors. 
Service  on  the  Tucson  police  force;  ranching 
near  Gila  Bend,  where  I  soon  starved  out;  mer«. 
chandising  in  butter,  eggs  and  honey  at  the  Har- 
quahala  Mines, —  where  I  got  touched  up  by  the 
needy  for  my  profits  so  systematically  that  I 
philosophically  concluded  I'd  worked  about  long 


3o4  THE  VANGUARD 

enough  for  others,  and  dropped  back  into  my  old 
line  of  deputy  sheriff,  at  Florence,  Arizona. 

At  the  time,  there  were  five  condemned  Indian 
murderers  in  the  jail  awaiting  hanging,  the  no 
torious  Apache  Kid  among  the  jail-birds,  and  no 
less  than  seventeen  so-called  "  bad  men  "  in  town 
who  well  deserved  the  name.  So  Sheriff  Fryer, 
under  sheriff  Hinson  Thomas  and  I  had  enough 
to  do  to  keep  our  guns  from  rusting. 

The  sheriff  made  me  custodian  of  the  jail;  and 
the  good  luck  that  usually  followed  me  as  long 
as  I  stuck  tight  to  my  "  profession  "  soon  de 
veloped,  in  an  incident  that  served  to  establish  a 
measure  of  respect  for  me  that  materially  helped 
my  local  prestige  as  a  peace  officer. 

The  greatest  bully  of  the  town  was  a  man 
named  Pizona,  a  burly  two-hundred-and-forty- 
pounder,  who  was  reputed  to  have  systematically 
whipped  the  town  on  an  average  of  once  a  fort 
night  for  a  year  or  more. 

When  Fryer  came  into  office  he  resolved  to 
stop  him.  Thus  it  happened  one  morning  that 
a  posse,  headed  by  the  sheriff,  came  hustling  the 
redoubtable  Pizona  up  to  the  jail,  the  prisoner 
bleeding  like  a  butchered  beef  steer  and  Fryer 
and  most  of  his  posse  looking  like  they  had  been! 
trying  to  win  a  fall  off  a  circular  saw. 

Turned  over  to  me,  I  was  ushering  him,  kindly 
enough,  into  the  inner  court  of  the  jail,  when 
Pizona  whirled  on  the  sheriff,  swearing  he  would 
whip  him  again.  At  which  Fryer  drew  his  pistol. 

Springing  between  them,  I  claimed  him  now  as 


DEALING  WITH  THE  DESPERATE    305 

my  prisoner,  but  only  to  be  myself  grappled  by 
the  ruffian,  and  down  we  fell,  locked  together. 

A  wild  cat  in  activity  and  a  bull  in  strength, 
he  was  near  getting  the  better  of  me  when  I 
managed  to  get  him  by  the  throat,  and,  presently, 
had  him  choked  to  docility,  I  thought. 

But  just  as  I  was  rising  off  him,  the  Chiricahua 
bronco,  Apache  Kid,  handed  him  a  club,  through 
the  head  of  which  a  spike  was  driven.  In  the 
same  instant  one  of  my  helpers  passed  me  a  club. 

To  be  sure,  I  wore  my  pistol ;  but  since  I  never 
could  get  my  own  consent  to  fight  an  enemy  with 
any  other  weapon  than  such  as  he  himself  wielded, 
at  it  we  flew. 

Round  and  round  we  circled,  crouching,  leap 
ing,  dodging,  he  positively  growling,  like  the  beast 
he  was. 

For  me  especially  it  was  take  no  chances  that 
could  be  sidestepped,  for  one  crack  on  the  head 
with  his  spiked  war  club  would  be  sure  to  finish 
me. 

So  all  my  energies  were  in  play  to  avoid  a  blow 
until  I  could  disarm  him. 

Presently,  on  a  counter  of  a  blow  of  his  that 
nearly  paralysed  my  right  arm,  I  contrived  to 
break  his.  Then,  before  I  could  recover  full  self- 
control,  I  gave  him  two  cracks  on  the  head  that 
left  him  fluttering  along  the  crest  of  the  last  divide 
of  life  for  several  weeks. 

This  club  duel  served  to  give  Fryer's  new 
deputy  such  a  local  "  rep  "  that,  transferred  from 
the  custodianship  of  the  jail  to  more  active  service 


306  THE  VANGUARD 

about  the  town,  a  few  weeks  sufficed  to  tame,  as 
gentle  as  house  cats,  the  few  "  bad  "  ones  that  did 
not  promptly  hit  some  trail  for  other  parts. 

Drifting  from  Florence  up  to  Prescott,  I  there 
met  a  clever  sleight-of-hand  performer  who 
tempted  me  to  try  for  a  stake  at  a  new  game ;  and 
while  I  sat  in  and  drew  cards  with  him  for  more 
than  a  year,  the  same  old  hoodoo  followed  me. 

From  Frisco  we  took  in  all  the  towns  as  far 
down  the  west  coast  as  Guayaquil,  giving  exhibi 
tions  —  my  mate  of  his  tricks  at  legerdemain ;  I 
of  glass  ball  breaking  with  my  pistol. 

Returning  from  Guayaquil  to  Panama,  thence 
we  coasted  down  to  Buenos  Ayres,  crossed  to 
Cape  Town,  and  worked  up  through  the  Colony 
and  the  Transvaal  to  Johannisburg,  leaving  there, 
ultimately,  just  before  the  Jamison  raid. 

Prosper?  Did  we?  Sure;  stacked  up  no  end 
of  experience  and  memory  of  new  scenery  —  but 
landed  in  New  York  so  stony  broke  that  I  had  to 
borrow  the  price  of  my  old  friend  Mackey  to 
carry  me  back  among  the  sage  brush  and  cactus 
I  never  should  have  left. 


—  XVI  — 

THE    CHINOOK   WIND 

RETURNED  from  Africa,  until  late  in 
the  nineties  I  continued  active  in  the 
Vanguard,  ranging  the  mountains  and 
deserts  of  the  Southwest,  as  peace  offi 
cer  or  bullion  guard  of  this  or  that  mine,  as 
marshal  or  deputy  sheriff  of  one  turbulent  camp 
or  another. 

And  always  with  the  same  result.  No  job 
ever  lasted  long  with  me.  I  did  my  work  too 
quickly.  Instantly  I  was  on  a  new  job,  it  was 
hit  myself  in  the  flank  with  my  hat  and  fly  at  it 
on  the  jump.  At  the  first  step  toward  restraining 
the  crimes  and  violence  of  the  outlaws  and  thugs, 
it  was  fight  them  to  a  conquering  finish  or  be 
packed  to  the  local  "  Boot  Hill." 

And  while  they  often  had  me  scared  badly 
enough  to  want  to  run,  I  can  truthfully  say  I 
never  did.  I  never  quit  a  camp  or  trail  whose 
pacification  I  had  undertaken  until  its  bad  men 
were  exterminated  or  driven  out.  Often  I 
worked  alone,  sometimes,  where  the  odds  against 
me  were  too  heavy,  with  a  hardy  man  or  two  to 
help. 

Round  the  circle  of  the  camps  I  swung,  to  the 
307 


308  THE  VANGUARD 

Pierce  Mine,  the  King  of  Arizona  Mine,  to  Pres- 
cott,  to  Williams,  Yuma,  Tyson's  Wells,  Morenci 
—  too  many  to  mention.  Directly  peace  de 
scended  upon  a  camp  I  was  employed  in,  nothing 
remained  for  me  but  to  climb  out  of  it,  to  "  beat 
it "  as  soon  as  the  battling  was  done. 

Further  details  of  the  grim,  bloody  strife  of 
those  closing  years  of  the  work  of  the  old  Van 
guard,  I  have  not  stomach  to  write. 

To  me  they  were  just  in  the  day's  work. 

And  while  I  believe,  and  many  who  know  me 
intimately  tell  me,  my  human  sympathies  are 
tender  as  those  of  most  men,  then  I  thought  no 
more  of  exterminating  a  desperado  than  of  bowl 
ing  over  venison  I  needed  to  fill  out  a  slack 
belt. 

Now,  after  some  years  of  peace,  I  have  come 
to  view  my  old  life  from  a  new  angle,  that  of  the 
men  and  women  of  to-day;  have  come  to  realise 
the  horror  of  it,  no  years  and,  indeed,  few  months 
of  it  unblemished  by  the  shedding  of  human  blood. 

And  yet  I  was  no  more  than  an  honest  crafts 
man  of  my  day. 

Our  work,  the  work  of  me  and  my  kind,  was 
necessary  —  imperative  —  the  work  of  the  Van 
guard  that  pacified  the  Old  Frontier. 

Of  my  work  I  am  proud;  of  it  suffer  no  shame. 

Never  once  in  my  life  have  I  sought  a  quarrel ; 
never  killed  except  where  forced  to  it;  never 
knowingly  wronged  any  man. 

And  for  our  ample  absolution  it  should  suffice 
to  point  the  fact  no  man  can  deny,  that  neither 


THE  CHINOOK  WIND  309 

schools  nor  churches  flourished,  nor  centres  of 
peaceful  husbandry  throve,  nor  mills  smoked  and 
steel  rails  criss-crossed  all  the  land,  until  the  work 
of  the  old  Vanguard  was  done! 

For  myself  I  expect  nothing  —  ask  nothing  but 
a  few  years  more  of  the  infinite  happiness  and 
peace  that  now  are  mine.  But  I  do  appeal  to 
some  man  whose  wealth  was  founded  within  the 
field  fertilised  with  their  blood  to  raise  a  fitting 
statue,  rugged  and  stern  of  face  and  bold  of  poise, 
to  The  Vanguard,  and  do  respectfully  beg  that 
it  may  bear  the  inscription : 

"Nor  schools  nor  churches  flourished,  nor. 
centres  of  peaceful  husbandry  were  established, 
nor  mills  smoked  and  steel  rails  criss-crossed  all 
the  land,  until  the  work  of  The  Vanguard  was 
done." 

Some  months  before  the  outbreak  of  the  Span 
ish  War  I  first  fell  ill. 

An  iron  frame  that  had  known  no  pain,  save 
such  as  weapons  make,  succumbed. 

Down  I  toppled,  like  an  age-worn  Michigan 
pine  crumbling  beneath  its  load  of  snow. 

Then  they  took  me  home,  to  the  only  home  the 
whole  world  held  for  me,  the  Old  Soldiers7  Home, 
at  Los  Angeles,  a  privilege  won  by  my  service 
in  the  California  Column. 

There  I  had  every  care  such  institutions  can  be 
stow  —  all,  indeed,  but  the  soothing  touch  of 
loving  hands  my  wild  life  had  left  me  stranger  to. 

Soon  they  had  me  on  the  mend,  sufficiently 
mended  so  that  when  the  echoes  of  Dewey's  guns 


3io  THE  VANGUARD 

roused  all  our  land  I  was  able  to  quit  my  bed  and 
jump  the  first  train  for  San  Francisco. 

Arrived  there,  I  got  an  interview  with  General 
Wesley  Merritt,  and  begged  permission  to  volun 
teer,  in  any  corps  for  any  active  service  in  the 
field.  But  only  to  be  told  that  I  was  too  old ! 

Realising  my  appeal  hopeless,  I  stamped  out  of 
his  office,  madder  than  I  had  been  since  Tom 
Harper  knocked  me  down  in  Bessie  McVicker's 
presence. 

But  on  reflection  I  cannot  so  much  blame  the 
general,  for  besides  my  years  I  was  still  thin  and 
drawn  from  my  illness,  almost  feeble,  and  had 
counted  perhaps  too  much  on  my  well-known 
record,  and  the  chance  of  recruiting  my  energies 
on  the  out  voyage,  for  my  acceptance  as  a  volun 
teer. 

Rejected,  nothing  remained  for  me  to  do  but 
make  my  way  back  to  the  Old  Soldiers'  Home  and 
settle  into  the  routine  of  idleness  that  doubtless 
serves  to  keep  an  old  carcass  longer  on  its  legs, 
but  that  soon  chafes  a  man  accustomed  to  a  life 
of  action  to  the  serious  contemplation  of  suicide 
—  so  affects  all,  in  fact,  who  do  not  promptly  fall 
victims  of  mental  dry  rot. 

There,  for  some  years,  it  was  my  destiny  to  re 
main,  amid  an  interminable  babble  of  the  ills 
and  aches,  the  regrets  and  griefs  of  my  fellow  in 
mates  that  soured  the  milk,  obscured  the  sun  and 
turned  God's  flowers  dull  grey. 

Time  and  again  I  tried  to  escape,  but  my  ills 
were  still  too  strong  upon  me.  Only  once  were 


THE  CHINOOK  WIND  311 

my  services  commanded  —  by  the  owner  of  the 
Double  Circle  Ranch,  who  wrote  that  robbers 
were  thinning  his  horse  herd  and  looting  his  equip 
ment,  and  urged  me  to  come  and  go  them  a  whirl. 

Arrived  at  the  Double  Circle,  I  soon  learned 
that  most  of  the  looters  were  men  of  his  own 
outfit;  and  since  he  immediately  put  me  in  charge, 
and  something  of  my  reputation  was  known,  my 
coming  was  bitterly  resented. 

And  shortly,  on  Christmas  night  it  was,  the 
ball  opened,  in  a  way  that  would  have  soon  led  to 
trouble  if  I  had  not  nipped  it  in  the  bud.  Fight 
ing  drunk  and  scowling  challenge  at  me,  several 
men  out  with  their  guns  and  began  shooting  into 
the  floor  of  the  ranch-house.  Of  course,  it  Was 
call  their  hand,  pronto ,  so  I  quietly  remarked: 

"  Boys,  put  up  those  guns  instantly,  or  else 
shoot  at  me,  for  the  next  gun  that  goes  off,  no 
matter  how  aimed,  I  shall  take  as  a  shot  at  me." 

Rather  to  my  surprise,  for  there  were  three 
downright  bad  ones  in  the  bunch,  they  obeyed. 

Guns  restored  to  scabbards,  I  told  the  three 
they  were  dismissed  from  the  ranch,  right  there, 
and  could  take  their  money  and  start  ahoof  for 
the  railway  in  five  minutes  or  fight  me,  as  they 
pleased. 

For  a  whole  minute  they  looked  like  war,  so 
much  so  I  felt  glad  I  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  slip  a  second  pistol  inside  my  shirt. 

But  only  for  a  minute;  then  they  caved,  crum 
pled  up  and  took  their  money  —  perhaps  because 
a  couple  of  days  before  they  had  been  watching 


312  THE  VANGUARD 

me  tossing  tomato  cans  into  the  air  and  boring 
them  with  my  pistol,  with  fewer  misses  than 
looked  good  to  them. 

Three  months  did  for  the  Double  Circle.  Pac- 
ilied,  there  was  no  further  need  of  my  services. 
My  happy  little  outing  was  over,  and  it  was  trail 
back  to  the  Home ;  back,  with  the  scent  of  life  in 
my  nostrils  and  the  thrill  of  action  in  my  blood, 
back  into  the  scent  of  the  grave  and  the  asphyxi 
ating  atmosphere  of  the  mentally  feeble  and  mori 
bund. 

But,  happily,  the  Double  Circle  incident  proved 
the  dawning  of  the  brightest  period  of  my  life,  a 
dawning  whose  shining  rays  were  shortly  to  lead 
me  into  a  harbour  of  peace  and  joy,  of  content 
ment  and  bliss,  that  I  had  never  dreamed  could 
be  mine. 

Down  to  the  home  one  day  came  from  the  red 
wood  lumber  camps  of  north  California  an  old 
soldier  whom  I  had  known  as  a  lad  in  Ionia; 
County. 

Through  the  war  he  had  served  in  a  Michigan 
regiment.  Only  twice  since  had  he  revisited  our 
old  home,  but  he  had  continued  correspondence 
with  his  family. 

From  him  I  learned  —  oh  joy!  the  greatest 
that  could  come  to  me  —  not  only  that  Tom 
Harper  had  recovered  of  the  wound  that  had 
left  me  for  half  a  century  regarding  myself  as  an 
outlaw,  not  only  that  my  mischievous  Bessie  Mc- 
Vicker  still  lived,  but  that,  through  all  the  weary 
years  of  my  absence,  she  had  remained  single ! 


THE  CHINOOK  WIND  313 

Could  it  be  that?  Could  it  be  that  she  had 
withheld  her  heart  and  hand  through  all  those 
years  for  memory  of  me?  No.  That  were  in 
deed  folly  of  the  wildest. 

She  wait  for  me?  She,  who  had  never  passed 
me  so  much  as  a  kindly  word,  who  was  ever  mak 
ing  me  the  subject  of  cruel  jests!  She,  above  all, 
who  had  run  to  Tom's  side  and  taken  his  head 
in  her  lap  when,  fallen  under  my  blow,  he  lay  so 
still  in  the  snow  1 

Nonsense.  Doubtless  instead  she  had  forgot 
ten  the  fact  I  had  ever  existed.  But  I  would 
know;  I  must  know. 

Promptly  her  answer  came.  Followed  a  cor 
respondence  in  which  she  owned  she  had  loved 
me  from  the  first;  that  she  well  deserved  the 
sousing  in  the  sap-trough  I  had  given  her;  and 
that  she  had  only  run  to  Tom  in  fear  my  blow 
had  killed  him,  and  in  the  hope  she  might  revive 
him  and  save  me  the  grave  consequences  that  must 
ensue  in  case  he  died  at  my  hands. 

But  oh!  the  grief  intermingled  with  our  joy! 

She  remained  as  poor  as  I ;  could  no  more  come 
to  me  than  I  could  go  to  her. 

She  was  shackled  by  her  poverty  in  the  sugar- 
bush  where  I  had  left  her,  I  by  mine  in  the 
Soldiers'  Home. 

We  were  like  two  disembodied  spirits  reunited, 
denied  the  pressure  of  dearly  loved  lips,  the  clasp 
of  quick-pulsing  hands. 

But,  ah !  the  pride  and  happiness  our  letter  in- 


3H  THE  VANGUARD 

tercourse  brought  me!  Bessie  had  stayed  true 
to  me  as  I  to  her.  And  to  me  it  was  all  the 
dearer,  for  that  mine  had  been  a  silent  adoration 
I  had  never  dared  express,  and  yet  so  strong  she 
must  have  sensed  it  to  have  responded,  as  plainly 
she  had,  by  a  lifetime's  devotion. 

Time  passed  —  much  time  —  until  we  had  be 
come  in  a  way  reconciled  to  our  unfortunate  lot; 
had  about  abandoned  hope  of  again  meeting  in 
this  world. 

Yet  once  again  our  lucky  star  stood  still  above 
us. 

Back  to  me  came  an  old  friend  out  of  the 
mists  of  the  past,  a  mate  I  had  fought  beside 
thirty  years  before,  and  who  had  been  lost  to  me 
ever  since;  a  mate  who  knew  me  and  my  work 
and  was  of  a  fibre  to  understand  and  appreciate 
it,  himself  a  life-long  pathfinder  and  battler  in  the 
wildest  parts  of  three  continents. 

Back  to  me,  literally,  he  has  not  yet  come ;  but 
my  correspondence  with  him  through  the  last  four 
years  has  cheered  me,  has  stirred  the  blood  of  the 
old  warrior,  heartened  him,  until  now  again, 
thank  God,  no  trumpet  call  of  "  Boots  and  Sad 
dles  "  would  find  him  the  last  mounted. 

Come  he  has  not,  but  come  he  will;  he  must. 

For  me  the  last  divide  is  in  sight. 

Dim  and  distant  reaches  its  pale  line,  still  dis 
tant  it  seems  as  I  now  contemplate  it,  but  too  well 
I  know  I  am  driving  toward  it  at  racing  pace. 

God,  but  I  cannot  cross  it  without  a  hand 
clasp  of  the  man  whose  sympathy  and  good  cheer 


THE  CHINOOK  WIND  315 

have  blown  all  the  dry  rot  of  an  old  pensioner  out 
of  me;  set  my  nostrils  aquiver  and  my  blood 
atingle  with  the  breath  of  life;  given  me  courage 
to  abandon  the  galling  existence  of  an  indigent 
inmate  of  the  Old  Soldiers'  Home;  fired  me  to 
re-enter  the  field  of  free  men  and  to  again  do 
for  myself! 

And  to  get  for  myself  what  through  half  a 
century  I  had  most  wanted:  my  Bessie  of  the 
sugar-bush  I 

For  we  are  married  now  these  four  years,  she 
sixty-nine  and  I  seventy-one  when  we  stood  up 
before  the  parson. 

One  can  work  marvels  when  he  tries,  and  fancy 
the  prize,  to  me,  I  was  trying  for ! 

Within  a  year  of  the  day  I  left  the  Old  Sol 
diers'  Home  and  its  depressing  aggregation  of 
aching  limbs,  bleared  eyes,  dulled  ears,  sore 
hearts,  and  carping  tongues,  I  had  bought  an  acre 
of  land  in  one  of  the  outer  suburbs  of  the  beauti 
ful  city  of  Los  Angeles. 

On  the  land,  with  these  old  hands,  I  built  a 
house. 

A  house?  Rather,  to  be  truthful,  should  I 
say  a  cabin,  for  it  is  only  twenty-two  feet  by 
twelve;  but  now  that  it  is  bowered  in  vines, 
banked  thick  about  with  flowers,  warmed  by  the 
dear  old  California  sun,  kissed  by  the  soft  Pa 
cific  breeze,  and  holds  my  Bessie,  the  highest 
and  mightiest  of  earth  are  not  prouder  or  hap 
pier  in  their  ancestral  halls  than  am  I  in  my 
cabin. 


316  THE  VANGUARD 

And  when  once  again  I  may  hold  the  hand  of 
the  man  whose  return  to  me  was  like  the  coming 
of  the  soft  Chinook  wind  after  a  hard  Montana 
winter,  my  only  supplication  will  be : 

"A  little  health,  a  little  wealth  —  and  let  us 
round  out  our  lives  together  in  happy  stealth, 
Bessie,  my  friend  and  I." 

In  conclusion,  I  want  to  say  that  while  to-day 
this  simple  story  of  my  life  and  work  may  be 
lightly  read  and  cast  aside,  I  hold  the  faith  that 
after  another  half  century  has  brought  the  scenes 
and  incidents  it  describes  into  longer  perspective, 
it  may  be  valued  for  the  truthful  picture  I  have 
tried  to  make  it  of  the  experiences  of  a  humble 
worker  in  The  Vanguard  that  pacified  the  Old 
Frontier, 


THE   END 


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